


Colour me in

by SosoHolmesWatson



Series: PANCHROMATIC [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: After the Wedding, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergence, Drunk Sherlock, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, First Kiss, Fix-It, Greg Lestrade & Sherlock Holmes Friendship, Inspired by song, Love Confessions, M/M, Meddling Greg Lestrade, POV Alternating, POV Greg Lestrade, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Singing, Singing Sherlock, The best man speech
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:55:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23595679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SosoHolmesWatson/pseuds/SosoHolmesWatson
Summary: Sherlock needs help with the best man speech. Greg needs a way to clear things up. And John needs to figure out if he's made the right choice.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: PANCHROMATIC [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1743595
Comments: 60
Kudos: 125





	1. Greg

**Author's Note:**

  * For [itsalwaysyou_jw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsalwaysyou_jw/gifts).



> This Fix-It is set during and after The Sign of Three. Dedicated to the wonderful [itsalwaysyou_jw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsalwaysyou_jw) who managed to get me off my butt <3

Greg dashes up the familiar stairs, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

**HELP.**

**BAKER ST.**

**NOW.**

**HELP ME.**

**PLEASE.**

The words still blink before his eyes as if they have been permanently scratched into his cornea. His breath rushes out of him with painful force, carrying the same muttered curses he’s screamed at his steering wheel while speeding through London. His brain is close to short wiring. Every nerve end seems exposed and set on fire.

He can’t be too late, not this time. He won’t ever forgive himself if something happens to him.

He can’t be too late. Whatever it is, he’s not going to let Sherlock face it alone this time.

A few forceful steps more and he bolts into the sitting room of 221B.

There he is, Sherlock, at the dining table, alone, seemingly unhurt. At least, as far as Greg can tell.

A first wave of relief puts out his worst fears but the worried voices in his head can’t be drowned out quite as easily. There are still too many possible threats.

“What’s going on?” Greg manages to ask, pressing his hands into his sides against the stinging pain lodging there.

Sherlock doesn’t so much as look at him, his fingers placed at his temples. “This is hard,” he says, his tone grave and tinged with desperation.

Greg’s lungs burn almost as badly as his worry. Like wildfire, his thoughts are spreading in every possible direction, devouring everything in their way. “What?”

“Really hard. Hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”

A drop of sweat rolls down Greg’s back as he stares at Sherlock.

Has something happened to John? To Mary? Molly? Mrs Hudson? Who is in danger? Where do they have to go? How long will it take for the back-up to get here?

Greg watches breathlessly as Sherlock lowers his hands and then—holds up a book? Through the blur of his rushing blood, Greg deciphers the title: _How to write an unforgettable best man speech_.

His thoughts whir even more now. This can’t be right. What is he missing?

“Have you any funny stories about John?” Sherlock asks, genuine concern edged into his voice.

Greg is still not quite following. How is the best man speech involved in this matter of life and death?

“What?!” he shrieks again, unable to muster any other words.

“I need anecdotes,” Sherlock says, finally looking up. Upon beholding Greg’s dishevelled state, his face falls as if he’s just now drawing in his surroundings. “Didn’t go to any trouble, did you?”

Outside, some cars come to a halt with screeching breaks. The sirens of the ambulance are joined by the low humming of rotor blades. In the blue light blinking through the window, Sherlock looks almost sheepish.

The helicopter draws closer, billowing the curtains. Greg closes his eyes. _Dear God._

“Really, a helicopter?” Sherlock asks an hour later when they return to the flat. Sorting out everything has cost time and nerves. Greg doesn’t even want to think about the landslide of paperwork this mishap will bring down on him.

“What’d you think would happen if you send me messages like these?!” he snaps at Sherlock, in the quiet of his mind scolding himself for having reacted so dramatically. _Bloody bad conscience. Bloody Sherlock Holmes_.

He’s missed the bust of the Waters family for this utter shite. 18 months—18 months of overtime on bad coffee—he’s invested in the investigation, and in the final hour of triumph… Donovan is right; Now, to make matters worse, Paul Jones will get all the credit, that pompous, incompetent arsehole.

Greg stomps up the stairs. This could’ve meant a promotion or at least a commendation. And now he’s got nothing to show for his efforts. He’d be reproaching Sherlock for it, loudly, if there was any point in it. But even if Sherlock knew what his little stunt has cost Greg today, he probably wouldn’t even apologize for it, so what’s the use in screaming.

His eyes bore into Sherlock’s back, hoping that by some God-given power his gaze will set the bastard on fire.

When nothing happens, he makes do with grabbing his jacket. He’s taken it off and thrown it over John’s empty chair after the first shock, having to cool down in both the literal and figurative sense.

“I still do need your help,” Sherlock says as Greg aims for the door.

“I’m not in a particularly helpful mood right now, Sherlock,” he replies through his teeth. Maybe shouting a little would ease his frustration after all.

Sherlock bites his lip. “Greg, please,” he says after a beat.

He is not moved by Sherlock actually begging; It is the genuine desperation in his voice and the fact that he cares enough to use his correct first name. _He really must be daunted by this whole best man thing._

Greg sighs. “Alright then. Get your jacket.”

“What for?”

“I’ll help you with the damned speech but I sure as hell won’t do it for free. We’ll go down to the pub and you’ll buy me a drink. You look like you could use one, too.”

Sherlock stares at him, brows drawn over his eyes like a pair of irritated caterpillars. Greg might’ve laughed at his bewildered expression if his blood wasn’t still fuming underneath his skin.

“Well then?” Greg eggs him on, palms presented in a gesture of _take it or leave it_.

With a cock of his head, Sherlock shrugs out of his dressing gown and rushes to his bedroom.

Greg downs his first pint in big gulps. Seconds later, he can already feel his muscles gradually ease out of their rigid state. The buzzing of his nerves quietens a little against the background of the grainy football game flickering over the ancient telly above the bar.

Appeased, he leans back on his seat and sighs. The beer is good. And he likes this place with its worn furniture and the tacky decorations. In his bespoke suit, Sherlock looks completely out of place and this fact alone improves Greg’s mood significantly.

They’re sitting across from each other at one of the battered wooden tables, its top patterned with a mosaic of stains and water rings.

Hesitantly sipping at his own pint, Sherlock’s mouth curls in disgust the tiniest bit.

Greg arches his brows. “You don’t like beer, do you?” he asks flatly.

“Not particularly,” Sherlock admits with a lopsided smile.

“Why didn’t you say so?”

When Sherlock doesn’t respond, Greg switches his own empty glass with Sherlock’s. “Never mind. Just go get yourself something else.”

Greg uses his temporary absence to glance at the folder Sherlock has brought along. It’s pretty heavy, loose papers sticking out here and there. Now that he comes to think of it, he remembers Molly telling him about a similar folder Sherlock had used to organise the stag night—maybe it was even that same one.

Not that Greg has had any part in the festivities. If he’s honest, he’s still a bit miffed about the whole thing. He was supposed to join them at the last bar on their route later that night but the two lightweights ended up in a jail cell before he had even finished his shift.

“Why did you drink beer on the stag night then if you can’t stand it?” Greg asks as Sherlock glides back onto the seat with a colourful cocktail in his hand and a satisfied smile on his lips.

“It was the easiest beverage to calculate,” Sherlock shrugs. “I had to keep John’s blood alcohol on a steady level; I was aiming for tipsy, not completely inebriated.”

“Worked out perfectly,” Greg snorts and takes another sip of his pint.

Sherlock evades the criticism by sucking on his straw. His smile broadens as he swallows and immediately takes another gulp.

“Careful with that,” Greg warns him. “That’s a lot stronger than mine.”

Sherlock only rolls his eyes.

For a minute, both men remain silent, staring into their glasses.

“So, the speech…?” Greg asks at length with a pointed look at the file although he’d rather not be involved in this whole thing at all.

“Yes. Yes, right.” Sherlock emerges from his thoughts and pulls a few handwritten documents from the folder. “I’ve consulted this book and, apparently, my job is to simultaneously praise and make fun of John to entertain the guests. So, I made an index of his admirable qualities to include in the speech as well as a few thoughts on possibly funny anecdotes although I’m admittedly struggling with this part.”

Greg looks at the list. John’s positive traits fill two pages in tiny, neat handwriting. The other page, the one with the anecdotes, looks rather bleak in comparison. “‘ _The time I’ve slipped him hallucinogens and he called all his friends convinced that he was being followed by a purple dragon_?” He gives Sherlock a sceptical glance.

“That was pretty funny,” Sherlock sniggers.

“I don’t think John would agree.”

Sherlock cocks his head, insecurity sneaking back into his eyes. “Hm, well, perhaps not.” He takes another sip of his cocktail.

Greg leans back in his seat. “Don’t overthink it, mate. Maybe just include one of your cases. They’re usually entertaining and ridiculous enough.”

Sherlock’s face lights up. “A case! A case, of course. But which one? John usually chooses the most commonplace ones for his blog and he pads things with all this unnecessary drama and emotion.” He snorts indignantly. “For once, I could select one with actual features of interest, like that one with these extraordinary markings on the skull or that time we collected all these samples of—”

“Or,” Greg interrupts him, elongating the syllable with a suggestive nod, “choose something to show how helpful John always is. This is about him, after all.”

“Yeah, good point, good point,” Sherlock mumbles, retrieves a pen from his inner pocket and begins frantically scribbling down ideas in the document’s margins.

Greg washes down the chuckle quivering on his tongue with the rest of his second pint. His fingers trace the curve of the empty glass. As Sherlock’s hand flies over the paper, he feels warmth bloom on his insides the alcohol can hardly account for.

It’s refreshing to see Sherlock care so much, to see him try so hard to measure up to the responsibility he’s been entrusted with, to see him make an effort to live up to John’s high opinion of him.

Yes, it’s refreshing and actually kind of cute. Greg knows—or at least suspects—how much John means to Sherlock but watching the genius immersing himself so completely in such unfamiliar waters is something else.

“What about the humiliating part though?” Sherlock asks at length, pen halting with a sudden scratch.

Greg startles out of his musings, meeting Sherlock’s expectant gaze somewhat muddled. “What?”

“I’m supposed to ridicule John to a certain extent, aren’t I? It’s part of the fun.”

Taking a deep breath, Greg lets go of his glass at last. “Just let me get another of these,” he says, heaving himself off the seat. Seeing that Sherlock has finished his cocktail, too, he adds: “Want another?”

“Yes, thank you. And some chips if they’re any good here.”

Greg nods diligently. “Better than drinking these on an empty stomach.”

When he returns with the order, a thought occurs to him. “Why don’t you write about the stag night? That was embarrassing enough; drunken shenanigans, you honking all over a potential crime scene, and getting arrested—checks all the boxes.”

Sherlock diligently studies the chips before picking one up. “I’d rather not,” he says and begins to munch on the fried food.

Greg quirks his brows. “Why not? Too embarrassed by how plastered you both were? The great Sherlock Holmes, unable to hold his drink?” He grins.

Sherlock meets his gaze. Something in his face is decidedly cut off, like a concrete wall being build right in front of his eyes. “I won’t talk about the stag night. Period,” he snaps.

“Alright, alright,” Greg appeases him, rather taken aback by Sherlock’s reaction. “Let’s just do the rest of the speech then and come back to this point later, shall we?”

The chips and the second cocktail steadily thaw Sherlock’s defences again. He begins brainstorming and Greg finds that, for a couple of hours and with the help of alcohol, Sherlock Holmes makes for great company.

While Sherlock goes through the material he has compiled so far, Greg mostly listens and chimes in when necessary. It is actually quite fun to sit here and pass the time with something as silly as this speech, as long as Greg is careful not to mention John and Sherlock’s drunk escapades.

Soon, however, another obstacle presents itself. Every additional sip seems to fire Sherlock’s imagination and Greg needs all his focus to gently steer him away from the completely ludicrous ideas he begins to form without stepping on dangerous territory again.

The chances for this speech to meet the standards of what other people consider normal were small, to begin with; But the more Greg listens to Sherlock’s propositions the more concerned he becomes.

It’s not that Sherlock seems incapable of wording his affection and warm regard for John—it’s the sheer depth of these feelings that unveils itself with every spirited word Sherlock utters through another mouthful of chips. If some stranger would eavesdrop on their conversation, Greg ponders, they would probably think the two of them were crafting a love letter rather than a best man speech.

The initial warmth in his guts becomes something less pleasant as Greg watches Sherlock sip at his third— _or fourth?—_ drink. He’s never heard Sherlock talk about anyone or anything quite this fondly and it’s frankly alarming. The alcohol has unmistakably loosened Sherlock’s tongue and Greg is half intrigued by the peek behind the scenes he is offered and half worried by the increasing recklessness with which Sherlock talks about his emotional state.

For now, Greg decides to remain silent, a mere spectator of the show, but he can’t help but wonder if he has misinterpreted the relationship between his two friends all this time.

He knows that others have been quick to joke about the two single men living together, in the truest sense of the word. They didn’t just share a flat; They shared adventures and an unsettling preference for the macabre. Hours after their first meeting, they were already bickering like a married couple.

If it were anyone else Greg would have joined in everyone’s teasing. But this is Sherlock. He doesn’t work that way, being too far evolved to listen to his carnal nature or to give in to what he so lovingly calls _human error_. He’s as close to being a computer as humanly possible, as he’s always eager to tell anyone who’s willing to listen.

Greg has asked himself a million times if Sherlock is capable of caring for another human being the way normal people are.

Apparently, he is, at least to some extent, judging by the way words of praise roll from his tipsy tongue with such ease.

And John? He never struck Greg as someone inclined this way but, well, people are complicated. But he had decided to propose to Mary, so the whole matter was resolved. At least that’s what Greg thought.

Now, that he’s sitting in a pub with a Sherlock he hardly recognizes, all but bursting into song about John’s strength, compassion, and overall perfection, something begins to dawn on Greg.

“What do you think of this,” Sherlock asks, raising his eyes to Greg’s for a minute before reading out loud what he has scribbled down on a fresh piece of paper. “ _Mary, when I say you deserve this man, it is the highest compliment of which I am capable. John, today you sit between the woman you have made your wife and the man you have redeemed with the constancy and warmth of your presence. We both love you dearly and will never let you down_ …?”

Greg swallows. _Oh boy_. “Not bad, for a first draft. Needs a bit of work though, in my opinion.”

Sherlock looks genuinely offended. However, his stare forfeits some of its fierceness due to the colourful cocktail umbrella tickling his nose as he drinks. “Which parts?”

“Well, for once… You and John don’t strike me as the kind of mates who tell each other _I love you_ on a regular basis. You shouldn’t change the whole way you two communicate just because it’s his wedding. That’s just confusing.”

“If that was the case I wouldn’t give this bloody speech in the first place,” Sherlock says with contempt.

Greg gives him a pitying smile. “I’m afraid you have to. But, still… If you don’t usually say that kind of stuff to each other, it’s a little weird—”

“John has said it first,” Sherlock interjects, somehow sounding defiant, eager, and hurt all at once. “When he asked me to be his best man. He said—he said he wanted the two people around he loves most in this world, Mary and… me.”

Greg looks at him in surprise. “Oh, okay.”

“And it doesn’t mean the same as _I love you_ , anyway, does it? It’s just… friendly.” Sherlock grimaces, his brain notably taking some time to find the right word. “It’s not like John meant it… like that.”

For a second, his expression slips. Greg can see the heartache painted all over Sherlock’s features before he ducks his head to the almost empty plate of chips.

Greg swallows. So, it’s true. There’s something deeper, something more destructive happening to his oh so cerebral friend.

He knows he must tread lightly now. Not his strong suit, if he’s honest. Maybe he shouldn’t say anything at all, just let Sherlock live through this drunken soul-baring and act as if nothing has happened tomorrow. That would be for the best, right?

On the other hand, Sherlock seems actually distressed and as much as Greg wants to strangle him sometimes, he’s sworn to protect him, no matter what, when Sherlock rose from the dead. Emotional pain counts too, doesn’t it?

“I’m sure John genuinely loves you, Sherlock,” Greg says, at last, cringing at his own tone. “You’re so important to him. You should’ve seen him when you were gone. He was devastated for months, years even. He cares so much about you. If that isn’t love, I don’t know what is.”

Sherlock’s face settles into a sobered expression, sadness occasionally wafting over his features like November fog. “I know.”

For a few minutes, uncomfortable silence wraps around them, a tight, damp coat pressing on their mouths and ears until everything is rendered grey. The pub around them, gradually filling with people and laughter, is drowned out to a faded buzzing, to white noise Greg barely registers. A stale, ash-like taste sneaks onto his tongue as he swallows again.

At length Sherlock’s voice crawls through the thicket of loose pages on the table: “I thought… on the stag night, I thought that maybe… There was a moment when… You know, we came home and we played—played this game with the names and the paper and… laughed and his hand on my knee… there was a moment when I thought John would… I don’t know.”

Sherlock keeps his head down, busying his fingers with ripping the last chip into bits. “But then a client came and it all got… so crazy and I couldn’t think. Just couldn’t think right. And then when we were in that cell… together, on that slab thingy. He refused to let go of me. He held on so tight, so tightly. And we were half—half asleep already but I think… I’m sure John kissed me… Just this once, on the forehead.”

Greg opens his mouth but doesn’t dare to say anything.

Sherlock finally looks up, tears brimming in his eyes. “The next morning, he—he didn’t remember… anything. We’ve never talked about it. Just acted like… nothing had happened.”

His mouth still slightly agape, Greg stares at him, thoughts swirling through the thickening liquid inside his head, muddying the waters with their movement. He doesn’t know what to do, what to say, how to handle a buzzed Sherlock pouring his heart out to him.

Sherlock stares at him, expectant and somewhat needy. Greg should reassure him, comfort him, let him know he’s been where he’s now, that he knows what unrequited love does to your heart.

Yet, he remains silent.

A single tear frees itself from Sherlock’s lashes as he closes his eyes in defeat. He wipes it away with his fist, takes a breath, and states with sudden resolve: “I want to go home now.”

This isn’t going as planned, at all. Greg sighs internally as Sherlock gets up, leaving his documents scattered all over the table. He ploughs through the crowd, not even stopping to pay their check. Hastily, Greg picks up their stuff and fumbles a few crumpled-up pounds out of his wallet. That was supposed to be his cab money, but whatever.

With an apologetic smile at the barkeeper, he follows Sherlock outside. The air brushing over Greg’s heated cheeks is soothingly cool and soft.

A few feet away, Sherlock is struggling into his Belstaff.

“Sherlock! Wait a second, man!”

The addressed makes a few hurried steps towards Baker Street, promptly stumbling over his own feet. He holds on to a lamppost, visibly dizzy. A few passers-by give him concerned looks.

Quickly, Greg shifts the folder full of Sherlock’s notes to his left and hurries over to him, grabbing his shoulder. “Here, let me,” he says as Sherlock steadies a little, and offers him his arm for support.

Sherlock’s wet eyes take a little longer than usual to fix on Greg’s.

There it is again; this new layer of humanity Greg has always suspected to be there but never seen like this before.

The next second, Sherlock wriggles under his fingers. The indignant shrug he uses to get rid of Greg’s arm is accompanied by a haughty, albeit somewhat slurred speech about alcohol, independence, and the offensiveness of unnecessary and outdated chivalry. Several people slow down and listen curiously.

“To make it understandable even for you: I don’t need your help,” Sherlock ends. Greg wouldn’t be surprised if steam came out of his nostrils at the words.

He lets out an exasperated breath and clenches his jaw. _Why does everything have to be so bloody hard with him?_

“Changed your mind then, have you? Earlier, you literally begged me to help you,” he says, trying to keep his temper at bay.

“I didn’t beg,” Sherlock spits. “And just because I need your assistance with something as frivolous as these… bloody wedding formalities it doesn’t mean you—you get to manhandle me. I can handle myself just fine.”

Greg raises his free hand. “You know what, stumble into traffic for all I care. At least, then you won’t have to do the speech tomorrow. I was just trying to be a good friend but I’m done here.”

“Great.”

“Fine.”

For a few seconds stretching like chewing gum their eyes fire at each other. Greg orders his body to shove the damn folder into Sherlock’s arms and just leave, but either the pints or his conscience override every command.

Sherlock is hurting, Greg knows it. He can’t leave him here, drunk and vulnerable. The bastard’s enough of a drama queen to do something stupid in his desperation. And if he’s actually hit by a car, Greg wouldn’t be able to forgive himself.

He softens his gaze and cocks his head. “I’m going to bring this folder back to your flat, alright?”

Sherlock hesitates for a beat before he abandons his stubborn stance. The anger dripping from his face gives way to a weary expression. “Alright.”

Together, they walk back to the flat. Dusk hasn’t fallen yet and the air is fragrant with blooming trees.

It will be a beautiful day tomorrow, Greg supposes. A storybook wedding, with clear skies and golden sunshine illuminating the blushing bride.

And a best man with a broken heart.

Greg gives Sherlock a side glance as they walk in silence.

He’s still not quite sure how to behave. This is not territory he feels safe on, at all. And yet, he doesn’t want Sherlock to struggle through this by himself. But what can he really do other than comfort him? Talk to John? They aren’t that kind of mates. Whenever they meet, they mostly talk about sports or how impossibly Sherlock behaved at the latest crime scene. Asking him if he has feelings for Sherlock would be awkward at best. Chances are John would just laugh it off or stop talking to him altogether. He isn’t the kind of chap who talks about anything profound.

On the other hand, John relied heavily on him after Sherlock’s fake suicide. He trusted him. He called Greg up, usually late at night, drunk and crying. Greg didn’t know how to handle that either and now he feels that he definitely failed the test.

On the phone or when they met up at pubs, he barely managed a few words of comfort, not quite getting why John took it so hard. Sure, Greg was shocked and ashamed of himself, too. But his grief was nothing compared to John’s.

And John must have sensed how little Greg understood him because, one day, he simply stopped calling.

Greg privately scolds himself. Maybe he should stay out of it altogether. He clearly isn’t the right person to come to with emotional baggage. And meddling always makes things worse.

As they get closer to 221B, Sherlock’s feet seem to grow heavier with each step. He stumbles more than once, his long limbs too much to coordinate in his drunken state. Finally, he gives in and leans on Greg’s shoulder who wraps an arm around his waist in the least intrusive way he can think of. He doesn’t want to start another lecture on manhandling.

By the time the glossy black door comes into sight, Sherlock’s movements can barely be counted as walking anymore; Greg is lugging him along more or less, the additional weight and the exertion making him uncomfortably hot again. The appeasing effect of his pints is vaporising with each drop of sweat rolling down his back and, regardless of Sherlock’s emotional troubles, Greg wants nothing more than get out of this whole, delicate situation.

_What a day._

The door isn’t locked, so Greg pushes it open and untangles himself from Sherlock who seems rather confused by his actions.

“What’re you doing?” he asks, syllables washing into each other, as Greg hands him the folder.

“Going home.”

Sherlock looks at him as if Greg had said something decidedly offensive. “Take me upstairs.”

“What?”

“You have to take me upstairs,” Sherlock repeats in a petulant tone that would’ve put any four-year-old to shame. “You got me drunk and now you have to take me upstairs.”

“I didn’t—,” Greg protests but Sherlock nearly trips over the umbrella stand and Greg grudgingly decides that carrying Sherlock upstairs is preferable to taking him to the hospital with a broken leg. “Fine.”

Sherlock is hanging over his shoulder like a sack of cement as Greg drags him up the stairs. He decides to skip his football training session tonight. This is enough exercise for one day.

Having put Sherlock on the sofa and feeling as if he has redeemed himself at least a little after all Sherlock has put him through today, Greg turns to leave once more.

A hand on his jacket holds him back.

“Greg?” Sherlock asks, no, _begs_ , with another pull at his hem.

Greg hesitantly turns around and meets Sherlock’s eyes. To his alarm, they are filled with tears again.

“You mustn’t think it’s only because he’s getting married,” Sherlock pleads, his hands clutching to Greg’s lapels now, pulling him into an awkward bent-over position. “It’s not just because I’m losing him now. You have to know, I wanted to tell him, meant to. I really did. I just—I’m… not good with—” he ducks his head, his voice a tear-choked whisper— “you know. I never seemed to find the right moment. But I really meant to tell him.”

Not quite sure what else to do, Greg pats Sherlock’s arm. “I see.”

Sherlock sniffs pathetically and, for a horrifying moment, Greg fears Sherlock might bury his face in the fabric of his shirt and let all dams break.

Instead, Sherlock draws in a deep breath. “I want to show you something,” he mumbles and loosens the grip on Greg’s jacket. He rises clumsily and dives into the mess of unsorted correspondence and leftover seating charts on his desk. Greg watches with brows arched while Sherlock is frantically rummaging through the papers until he finds what he’s looking for.

With a triumphant little hum, he staggers to the telly and shoves a disc into the DVD player’s slot.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?” Greg dares to ask as the addressed pushes him down onto the sofa and searches for the remote on the equally messy coffee table.

“Just wait a second,” Sherlock replies, the bile in his voice starkly undermined by the way his reddened eyes are shifting back and forth between Greg and the telly.

Greg reluctantly settles down as Sherlock presses play.

On the telly, a home video is playing, the date stamp showing that it’s almost a year old.

At first, the screen is completely obscured by what looks like dark red and grey fabric, motioning in front of the lens. A faint rustling and clicking is heard as something brushes over the microphone. Greg watches as a figure moves away from the camera, having turned on the recording, and settles on the same sofa he is occupying right now. The distinctive wallpaper and the smiley in the upper left corner leave no doubt.

At least, they shouldn’t.

But Greg has trouble fitting what he sees into his reality.

The man, dark curls framing his face, reaches for something next to him. Greg recognizes a simple acoustic guitar as the man lifts it onto his lap and begins to gently stroke the strings. Hesitant notes drift from the speakers.

Greg gives Sherlock a curious side glance, not quite sure what to make of this demonstration. “Is… Is that you, playing the guitar?”

“Yes, obviously.” Sherlock rolls his eyes. The motion seems to worsen his dizziness, as Greg notes rather contentedly.

He tries to suppress a grin. “I just… didn’t know you could.”

“I usually prefer my violin but it’s not as suited for comping,” Sherlock says, his words still audibly slurred, although he is making an effort to sound sober. “On the rare occasion that I compose music with lyrics, I… switch instruments. The guitar was more accessible than a piano. I could’ve broken into Mycroft’s place while he’s at work and used his concert grand but I prefer a less… nauseating environment when I’m composing.”

“You also play the piano?”

“Yes. Piano, guitar, violin, cello, clarinet. I even had a drum set as a kid—although that was mostly to annoy Mycroft and my parents.” Sherlock grins stupidly while his younger self on the screen plays a few shy cords.

“How come I’ve never heard you play before?”

“As I said,” Sherlock reiterates, “I don’t usually need another instrument for composing.” He squints at the telly and sways slightly against Greg’s shoulder.

The Sherlock on the screen begins to speak, his voice earnest and steady. “John, you know I’m neither particularly skilled nor experienced when revealing my emotions. Victor Hugo once said _Music expresses that which cannot be said and on which it is impossible to be silent_. I’ve come to think that this is true. Maybe some things cannot be put into words. Maybe there are things too vital for mere language to convey, too ineffable. I’ve attempted it nevertheless and hope the music simplifies matters.”

Greg doesn’t dare look at Sherlock.

A dozen questions press against his forehead, indistinguishable forms in the fog of his thoughts, but he doesn’t think he can voice them quite yet. He just stares at the grainy picture of the telly and listens as a past Sherlock starts to sing.

When the song is over, Sherlock shifts next to him. “So, I thought I’d give it to him tonight when he comes over to collect the other place cards. It’s my last chance to see him alone and—”

“You can’t show him, Sherlock,” Greg states gravely. His tongue feels heavy and bridles at forming the words.

Sherlock’s eyes darken. “Is it—that bad?”

“On the contrary.”

Something seems to click into place in Sherlock’s head. His whole body deflates, air leaving his lungs in a painfully understanding “Oh.”

Greg grabs his shoulder. “Sherlock, the wedding’s literally hours away. All his friends and family will be there. You can’t derail that now. You could’ve told him any other day over the past months since you’ve been back but you didn’t. Doing it now will only cause pain and confusion, for everyone. John has made his choice, he chose Mary, and you’ll have to respect that. If you truly love him, if you want him to be happy, you have to let this go.”

“But he’s made the wrong choice,” Sherlock protests, his voice torn and pleading.

“That’s not your decision to make.”

Greg rises from the sofa and crosses the room. The telly goes black as he presses the button and the DVD player ejects the disc.

“I’ll take this, just in case you… just in case.”

He turns and straightens his jacket resolutely. “You should drink at least two glasses of water and then go to bed, sleep off the booze. Maybe take some aspirin straight away, be a step ahead of the hangover. Things will look different in the morning, you’ll see. Just make sure you’ll be good to give that speech, be John’s best man.”

He pauses for a second, eyeing Sherlock with a fist of pity twisting his guts. “Will you be alright? I can stay if you want.”

“Of course, I’ll be alright,” Sherlock snaps back but doesn’t make any attempts to get off the sofa. He’s still staring at his knees, his curls hiding his face.

Greg has never seen him look so small and soft and utterly forlorn. He steps closer again and carefully places his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“I know this sucks, mate. But you’ll get over it eventually. Getting your heart broken is a fundamental human experience. Happens to all of us. Even to those who are as far from being human as you. You’ll make it through, I promise. And I’m here for you if you need to talk. Just don’t sabotage the wedding, alright? For John.”

After a beat, the pile of shards resembling Sherlock Holmes nods reluctantly. “For John.”

Greg gives him another amicable pat and takes his leave. “See you tomorrow.”

Morning arrives and brings gifts of fresh, mellow air and blinding sunlight. Greg feels the slightest headache creep up his temples though he can’t quite tell if the alcohol or the unwarranted revelations about his friend are to blame.

He keeps a close eye on Sherlock throughout the ceremony, half expecting him to raise his hand when the vicar asks if anyone opposes the union. But everything goes smoothly.

Sherlock wears a mask of exasperated indifference to his morning suit, resembling his brother more than ever before. He hands John his written vows and pointedly ignores Greg’s inquisitive gazes during the oaths, ever the dutiful best man.

In the same manner, Sherlock endures having pictures taken and welcoming the guests, not smiling once.

From his place at the table, Greg has a good view of Sherlock’s barely touched food and stern face. Something undeniable sad glimmers in his eyes now and again when he looks at John and Mary laughing and sharing their pudding. To Greg’s relief, no one else seems to notice anything odd about Sherlock. It has some perks, he muses, to have a reputation as a cynic sociopath.

The last plates have just been cleared when Sherlock rises and clears his throat. Greg braces himself, clasping his beer glass tightly.

Against all odds, the best man speech is not a total train wreck—at least for Sherlock’s standards. Well, of course, he manages to insult most of his audience and demonstrates how socially awkward and unpleasant he can be, but his words are also heartfelt and full of genuine adoration for John, moving most of the other guests to tears.

Next to Greg, Molly and Mrs. Hudson both snivel into their handkerchiefs as John gets up and embraces Sherlock in a clumsy hug.

Greg has to divert his gaze. Sherlock’s expression is just too painful to watch now that he knows what goes on in his heart. He begins to wonder why he hasn’t noticed sooner—he’s a detective after all—because the signs are as clear as the spring sky outside.

Maybe, he muses, it’s because he has gotten so used to Sherlock not getting along with anyone, being cruel and callous even with people who admired him. John had been an outlier, a lucky exception, and Greg had simply welcomed the good influence he had on Sherlock, without questioning its source. He had witnessed Sherlock finally finding a friend and failed to recognize how different another kind of love might look for someone like the genius. But the signs were there, just in other shapes than expected.

Greg clenches his jaw. _Poor chap_.

His thoughts are torn from his musings when the speech takes a different turn. For a few equally confusing and excruciating minutes, Greg is sure that Sherlock is either trying to ruin the wedding after all… or has just completely lost it. He’s almost relieved as the reason for Sherlock’s peculiar—well, more peculiar than usual—behaviour reveals itself to be an attempted murder rather than a broken heart.

Handing the Mayfly Man over to the officers, Greg feels himself breathe more easily for the first time since yesterday. It seems like they’ve cleared the worst hurdle, the best man speech, and, from here on, things will somehow return to normality. Or some form of it.

When he watches John and Mary dance for the first time to Sherlock’s beautiful violin song, Greg allows himself to feel happy for them. They are both smiling from ear to ear as they make it through the waltz, a happy couple if ever he saw one.

This confirms it. Greg has made the right decision. If John had seen that video… The consequences would have been unpredictable. It was the right call to hold Sherlock back. Best if John never finds out.

As the dance ends and Sherlock starts off the actual party, he pledges his support and love to the newly-weds. Greg privately congratulates him for his endurance and dignity. He has neither started any drama (well, at least not what Greg feared) nor behaved like a completely inconsiderate dick. Greg is proud of him, very much so. And he’s impressed. His love for John must run deep to make Sherlock capable of this much social interaction. And his façade hasn’t slipped an inch. If Greg hadn’t witnessed his confession yesterday, he never would have guessed.

He’ll get over it eventually, Greg tells himself as he heads to the dancefloor. Heartaches can’t last forever, as much as you always believe they will.

It’s a few fun hours of dancing with Mrs Hudson, Molly, and Eileen, one of Mary’s nurse friends, before Greg questions his judgement again.

He is just approaching the bar to get beers for him and Eileen when John, obviously a few pints ahead of him, comes shoving through the dancing crowd.

“Have you seen Sherlock?” is the first thing he asks, the urgency in his tone not as subtle as it might have been without the alcohol.

Somehow, Greg has the distinct impression that John is distraught.

“No,” he says with an apologetic shrug. When John bites his lips and turns to the bartender for another drink, he adds in an attempt to distract him: “Great wedding, man.”

“Thanks,” John says, seizing the invitation to small talk. “Though I wasn’t much involved in the planning really. This is all Mary and Sherlock. The only thing they’ve entrusted me with is showing up today. I once made the mistake of questioning their choice for the centrepieces and they almost ripped me to pieces.” He laughs a little hoarsely. “But, you know, happy wife, happy life.”

Greg reciprocates his grin. “Oh, believe me, I vividly remember my own wedding planning torture. Nicole was a real bridezilla. Should’ve been a warning sign.” Realising how tactless this last comment might have been, he quickly adds: “But I’m sure you guys will be so happy.”

“Yeah, me too,” John says, his tone betraying he is barely listening. Greg follows his eyes over to Mary who is having a spirited conversation with her bridesmaids at the other end of the bar. John watches them for a moment. Greg can’t be sure if it’s the flickering lights but, somehow, John really doesn’t look particularly happy. The colourful spots seem to fade when they cross his face. But probably that’s just Greg’s imagination. Maybe he should stop after this beer.

The bartender demands his attention and hands Greg two glasses.

“Did you believe that Nicole was the One when you proposed?” John asks abruptly just as Greg is about to head away with his drinks.

The way John has lowered his voice scratches on something Greg would rather not think about.

“Of course,” he says chipperly. “I was madly in love with her, ever since we first met. Naïve git, that I was.” He laughs but John only gives him a blurry, half-hearted grin.

When John doesn’t follow up, Greg is once again about to turn on his heels but that little, uneasy itch doggedly digs at his conscience. Finally, he asks: “When did you know Mary was the One?” He’s not sure he wants to hear the answer.

John doesn’t look at him. “Well, she’s there for me, has been although I’ve not been much fun these past few years. She made me laugh when I firmly believed I never could again.” He peels his eyes away from Mary and gladly receives a fresh pint from the bar. After a sip, he continues: “She gave my life meaning again after… you know. Proposing, marrying her seemed like the right thing to do. Make an honourable woman of her. Start a family. It’s what you do, innit?” He gives Greg a quick glance before taking another, plucky gulp.

“And you obviously made a better choice than I could ever have,” Greg says in an attempt to sound light-hearted but something is persistently gnawing at him.

“Choice, yeah.” John’s attention drifts off again.

For a moment, he remains deeply immersed in his thoughts. When he speaks again, his words flow hastily, as if they can’t wait to be spoken: “It really wasn’t though, don’t you think? A choice, I mean. Mary is the first woman in my life that… I’ve had girlfriends but while Sherlock was still around—he managed to scare them off pretty easily—” he laughs nervously—”or I did, I don’t know. I probably didn’t even mind at the time. I mean, Sherlock and I, we were always busy with some case or other and he’s right when he says that the Work doesn’t leave much room for anything else. And, honestly, I was fine with that. I liked my life like that. I could’ve gone on for… I wouldn’t’ve minded…”

John’s hand encloses his glass so tightly that his knuckles turn white. He swallows. “And when he was gone… Mary was the only one. She got me through it. How could I not marry her after all these months of—of burdening her with my grief? I couldn’t just go back to—I… I had her now. And it’s nice to have someone you can rely on, who genuinely cares about you. There was… there never really was anybody else to choose.”

The beer tastes bitter when Greg takes a sip. The little, relentless something lurking in his guts begins to tear bigger pieces off of him now with needle-sharp teeth. “So, when are you leaving for your honeymoon?” he tries to give the conversation a safer direction, already knowing how fruitless the attempt is. The drink in his hand has lost all appeal and so has the prospect of dancing with Eileen.

“Monday morning,” John replies absentmindedly while searching the dancing crowd with his eyes. Something in his features wipes away the last bit of doubt on Greg’s mind even before John says: “Where could Sherlock possibly be? You don’t think he’s left already, do you?”

“I don’t know,” Greg returns. The thought that Sherlock has fled the scene is mortifying him beyond reason. “Maybe he’s outside,” he tries to assure himself and John alike.

“I better go check.” John leaves his half-empty glass on the counter. “If that bastard has snuck off to smoke—”

Greg’s eyes follow John as he makes for the French doors leading out to the garden.

He feels nauseous. And he prays that after today, Sherlock sticks to something as harmless as a cigarette.


	2. John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your kind comments and kudos!
> 
> This has taken a darker turn than I've imagined but I promise you all the angst and bleakness will be rewarded with a happy ending. The song featured in this chapter is [Colour me in by Damien Rice](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M2SbH6tFLOs&list=RDM2SbH6tFLOs&start_radio=1)
> 
> There's another link to it in the chapter so you can listen to it and read along.

John wakes on his first morning as a married man with a gigantic hangover.

Through a crack in the curtains, sunlight is flooding the room like white-hot iron. John presses his eyes shut against the brightness. His head feels like an elephant is sitting on it and his tongue is stubbornly stuck to the top of his mouth.

He shouldn’t have had all those pints with his rugby mates. These guys drink way too hard for him. Hell, he can barely remember when and how he made it to the hotel room.

It must’ve been late. Or rather very early.

He rubs his eyes and blindly reaches for his watch on the nightstand. Heaving it in front of his face, he squints at the dial. It’s not even eight yet.

Next to him, Mary’s blonde, dishevelled head still rests calmly on the pillow. John watches her through his squinted eyes as her body ebbs and flows in deep, calm breaths.

It’s a wonder he’s woken up before her because, after all, she didn’t have a drop of alcohol after…

After Sherlock’s told them Mary is pregnant.

John swallows a groan as he shifts his weight and his head begins to throb reproachfully.

The pregnancy.

It’s a shock, to say the least. They haven’t planned for it, have not even been lax when it comes to contraceptives.

John knows there are enough couples their age who just aren’t that careful anymore, leaving it to chance or fate or whatever to tell them when to start a family.

But not him and Mary. They were careful.

As a doctor, John has no illusions about the various ways their precautions could’ve failed. Those things happen.

But, no, they didn’t plan for this.

And, yet, he knows he shouldn’t be this worried. They’re both in their thirties, they’re married, they’re financially stable. There is no reason to have this giant weight on his chest whenever his thoughts cross the subject.

No decent person would be this terrified, John thinks remorsefully and tries to swallow. His mouth is as dry as a desert and his skin feels hot and decidedly too tight.

He needs water.

Ignoring his body’s vehement complaints, he gets up. At the movement, his brain seems to tumble around in his skull, rotating around its own axis, until John feels he must grab himself by both ears to somehow steady his head.

For a moment, he fears the nausea tugging at his guts will get the better of him but after a few deep breaths the feeling subsides again, and he drags himself into the bathroom. Greedily, he grabs one of the toothbrush glasses, fills it at the tap, and empties it in big, rushed gulps. The cool water is a boon and John hastily fills the glass a second time.

For good measure, he turns the water to the coldest setting and splashes some on his naked arms and face. It’s soothingly cold on his heated skin.

In fact, it feels so good that John peels off the shirt and pants he has slept in and staggers over to the shower. His whole body seems to lag behind his brain, moving slower and clumsier than usual. John hits his toe on the shower door and suppresses a curse as to not wake Mary.

Goosebumps travel over his skin as he turns on the water, temperature as low as he can bear it.

For a few minutes, he simply stands under the spray, the water dripping over his face and washing away the last bit of sleep.

When his skin begins to redden from the cold, he turns the water to a more pleasant temperature and shifts his head. John leans his forehead against the tiles and lets out a silent sigh as the cool surface soothes his headache. Gradually, the tight, feverish feeling gives way to something more subdued.

He will never touch alcohol again, John solemnly promises himself. What was he thinking to drink this much? He isn’t twenty anymore. Nights like these basically qualify as a suicide attempt.

John groans against the tiles in self-reproach.

When he finally feels like a human being again, he manages to wash his hair and body. He has scrubbed every inch of himself clean, twice. His fingertips begin to shrivel already and he can’t think of another sensible reason to prolong the shower. After all, he can’t stay in here forever. As much as he wants to.

With more mental effort than should have been required, he turns off the water and reaches for a bathrobe.

Wrapped up tightly in the thick fabric, he steps out. His nausea returns with renewed fervour and John has to steady himself on the vanity and heave another deep breath.

Now that his head has calmed down enough to allow coherent thoughts, the aftershock of last night’s news shakes the very foundation of his identity again.

_Mary. My wife. Pregnant._

The shower has fogged up the mirror and John wipes it clean with his sleeve.

When he looks at his reflection, he almost suspects to observe some fundamental change in his face, as if there must be physical evidence for the shift in his life.

But there are only the same familiar dark-blue eyes staring back, with huge bags under them. The creases on his forehead are still the same, as is his dripping hair which is exchanging its golden colour for shades of silver at an alarming rate these days.

John reaches for his toothbrush and paste, then checks the mirror again.

No, nothing in his face proclaims that he is married now. Or that he is only months away from becoming a father.

The thought is feather-edged and cumbersome to handle.

He, John, a father.

He hadn’t thought he would ever have children, hadn’t really wanted any either. Not after witnessing what a father who isn’t up to the task can do to a child.

And now Mary is pregnant. The decision has been made for him.

As usual, John thinks grimly and presses the toothpaste so forcefully that a large share misses his brush and lands in the sink.

With another groan, John rams the toothbrush into his mouth and tries to get rid of the stale taste on his tongue.

He’s almost done when Mary enters the bathroom and wraps her arms around him from behind.

“Good morning, husband,” she purrs and presses a kiss onto his shoulder.

John mumbles a response into his toothbrush, strangely relieved to have his mouth full of foam.

Mary eyes him in the mirror. “God, you look awful,” she says with a pitying smile as she prepares her own toothbrush. “I think there’s aspirin in my wash bag.”

John rinses his mouth, rummages through Mary’s toiletries, and takes out the little package with a grateful nod. He dissolves one of the tablets unceremoniously in his toothbrush glass und takes a sip. The bubbles tickle his nose in a way that John finds unbearably annoying.

With the glass, he wanders back to the bedroom and opens his bag. Although he has only one outfit packed he takes so long to get dressed that Mary is ready before him.

“You really look like you need a proper English,” she says and gives her hair one last brush. “And loads of coffee.” She slips her shoes on and throws him an expectant glance.

John pulls on his sock with a speed evocative of a geriatric sloth. “Go ahead. I’m gonna need a minute.”

Mary opens her mouth and closes it again before she simply says: “I’ll save you a spot.”

The door falls shut behind her and John bites his lip.

He’s pretty sure that the prospect of having breakfast with his wife and all his friends and family, who’ve, by the way, made it all the way to London and stayed the night for his wedding, shouldn’t be quite this unnerving.

Nausea still rampaging in his belly is joined by a familiar pang of guilt.

_Hangover, schmangover_ , John thinks, _this should be a happy morning, the beginning of a new adventure with the love of my life by my side._

But something feels off.

And it isn’t just the unexpected pregnancy that has hit John like a meteorite.

Now that Mary is out of the room, John allows another of his worries to enter, one he has carefully factored out so far:

Sherlock.

He hasn’t seen him since the revelation last night, since the few secretive moments between the three of them— _or_ _four of them?_

John distinctly remembers how he had danced with Mary and watched Sherlock over her shoulder, the two of them exchanging one last awkward little smile. When he had turned around the next time, Sherlock had been gone.

But in the shuffle of dancing, chatting, laughing guests even his tall figure might’ve gotten lost. So, John hadn’t given it a second thought.

At first.

But as the night progressed, he had looked for him, asked after him, texted him five times at least.

John rises and fishes his phone out of the pocket of his morning suit that is haphazardly draped over a chair.

No new messages.

In the depths of his chest, a mixture of worry, anger, and hurt begins to simmer.

It’s quintessential Sherlock to have left the wedding, without saying goodbye, without a sign of life. He had gotten it over with and vanished at the very first opportunity.

Typical.

But then again, it isn’t. Sherlock has changed. He’s been more involved in the wedding planning than John himself, has picked out flower arrangements, has learned napkin folding, for God’s sake.

Yes, Sherlock has been too eager to help organise the wedding to just leave in the middle of it. And he is the best man, after all.

John scrolls through his sent texts, each sounding a little more desperate than the last. Of course, Sherlock often doesn’t reply to texts he doesn’t deem worthy of an answer.

The thought adds a dash of sadness to the concoction in John’s stomach.

He has wanted Sherlock to be here, still does. It isn’t fair that he just leaves him alone with all of this without even having the decency to tell him why.

John slams down his phone on the little side table and finally puts on his other sock. His shoes have somehow ended up under the bed and it takes a moment to reach them. Still, he ponders as he ties his laces, the exertion doesn’t account for his heart to beat this fast.

John knows he shouldn’t be so upset, has other things to think about, but Sherlock is his best friend and, whether John wants it to or not, being abandoned like this… it hurts.

Mary’s words, uttered only a few weeks ago, cross his mind again.

“He’s terrified,” had she said with that superior air she sometimes has about herself when John takes too long to get things.

He had dismissed it, of course, had told her and Sherlock—and himself—that nothing would change because, deep down, he had been scared of the mere idea.

If he’s honest, he is now more scared than ever. He doesn’t want things to change.

They’ve just regained a fragile balance in their friendship, something John wouldn’t’ve thought possible. After everything Sherlock has put him through, after letting him grief for two years… But still, John is thrilled to have him back in his life.

No, he doesn’t want things to change.

But whether he wants it or not, things _will_ change.

There’s a baby on the way.

John has the distinct feeling that the constant walk on a tightrope between Sherlock and Mary his life has become couldn’t survive the slightest deviation, let alone something as massive as this.

Probably, Mary had been right. Probably, Sherlock had been terrified.

This whole thing, the wedding and the months leading up to it, must’ve been like the way to the gallows, watching him and Mary plan their life as a couple, as a family.

Yes, Sherlock must’ve seen this coming even if neither of them did.

And now everything he’s feared will eventually come true. John doesn’t have any illusions about it. Having a child, a tiny person completely dependent on you, will make dashing off to crime scenes or staying up all night cracking codes virtually impossible.

Sherlock has every right to be terrified. John is, too.

It’s a relief; being able to put a finger on the very thing scaring him so much. And yet, it hurts, like a bruise you didn’t notice until you brush over it on accident.

His life, the version he has just gotten back, is over again.

Because, honestly, Mary had made his life better… but only in the sense that she changed it from being an endless succession of the same, grey twenty-four hours to something bearable, something liveable.

It was Sherlock who had brought back the colours.

John sits down on the unmade bed, his second shoe still in hand, and exhales fiercely.

There it is.

He has pushed the thought down, has carefully, forcefully avoided even coming near it, and, yet, it has snuck past his defences.

It’s Sherlock.

It has been him since the day they met. The one person giving him meaning, the one fixture his life revolves around. As if two empty years without him haven’t proven that sufficiently.

John growls and fires his shoe into the corner.

“Bloody, fucking shit,” he bursts out, the volume of his own voice egging on his headache. “Jesus Christ.”

He buries his face in his hands, still muttering swears into his palms, cursing Sherlock, cursing himself.

Has he still not learned his lesson, after two years, two goddamn years of sleeping too little and drinking too much? After being so close to the brink that a gun in the house was an almost irresistible temptation?

John bores his fingers into his scalp.

He had sworn it, had promised himself when Sherlock came back: John would never let him be his life’s centre again.

It should be enough of a lesson to have your foundation bursting under your feet once.

It should be enough to be hit by the debris and nearly suffocated _once_.

The next time around, you build yourself back up on something predictable, something sturdy.

And Sherlock is neither.

If his disappearance after the wedding has proven one thing it’s that he can’t be relied upon. He’ll always be as volatile as any other force of nature.

John knows that and he’s not only learned to live with it but to enjoy it.

Being with Sherlock is like roaming the streets of London with storm incarnate; he’s roaring thunder and driving rain. You have to learn when to confront, when to seek shelter, when to bend as not to break. But when you know your way, he’ll pull you along in an unprecedented rush, carry you to unimaginable heights, make you feel as if you can fly.

But you can’t.

Without him, you plummet to your death.

John knows that, too.

Yet, here he is; still as stupid and dependent and addicted to the special high only Sherlock can provide him with. Despite all the hurt he’s caused him, John has to admit to himself now that he would abandon anything, everything for the spot at Sherlock’s side.

He wants to run with the storm. It’s where he belongs.

He’s the conductor of lightning.

But what can he do now? He’s made a decision, a promise, a commitment. He’s made a vow, mere hours ago, for better or worse. It’s not about what he wants anymore. He has to think about his wife, about the two of them and their life together.

But Mary isn’t the problem. She has welcomed Sherlock and the Work with open arms, more so than John. Yes, she’s been as supportive and understanding as he hadn’t even dared hope.

She knows that John needs the thrill and she gives him room for it as much as she can, more than he deserves.

She isn’t the problem.

It’s the thing growing inside of her.

John knows that parents should love their children from the very moment they exist but, right now, in this very moment, he feels nothing but unrestrained hatred for the pile of cells which will soon grow up to bind him to a life void of danger and risk and adrenaline. It hasn’t been born yet, is barely the size of a pea, and John already feels weighed down by it, like a leaden chain closing around his throat.

If only it would just go away, if only…

The next second, John is disgusted with himself.

Who would think such horrible things about their unborn child?

He’s not in his right mind. It’s the hangover, this sodding headache and the sheer surprise. He just has to get used to the thought, he tells himself. As soon as the baby is here, he’ll be overjoyed. Definitely.

And he and Sherlock will just have to find other arrangements.

Remorsefully, John retrieves the shoe and puts it on.

It’s pathetic, to cling to his old life like this. He’s always despised people who reminisced, who refused to let go of whatever grandeur the past had held for them.

Time doesn’t work that way. It moves forward. And you either swim with its current or drown.

John straightens his shoulders.

He’ll make the best of it. That’s all he can do, really. He loves Mary, he really does, so, he can learn to love the baby and the new life it brings. A lot of parents probably would’ve never thought they want children and still love them once they’re in the world. Surely, John will be one of them.

And if not…

What’s done is done, he thinks as he opens the door to join Mary for breakfast. Either move with it or drown.

The rest of the day passes in a blur. There’s still a lot to do before they can leave for their honeymoon: seeing their guests off, packing up their presents, finishing up all arrangements at the location.

Janine, as the maid of honour, stays till everything is done. Her chipper, energetic presence makes John even more aware of the fact that his best man is nowhere to be found. It doesn’t help that Janine is constantly steering the conversation in the direction of Sherlock either.

Still, John finds that, despite his persistent headache and the lack of sleep, keeping busy is the lesser of two evils. Something tells him that, without the myriad of tasks to keep him occupied, his thoughts would grow to a deafening volume.

When all their bags are finally packed and John falls into bed that night, he equally wishes for and dreads the next morning. Once again, Mary’s voice haunts his head: “Right, you know when you’re scared of something, you start wishing it sooner just to get it all going?”

Sullenly, John rolls onto his side and falls asleep.

When the alarm wakes him, John finds he is indeed looking forward to the honeymoon, if only for the prospect of sleeping in.

His headache has finally given up and made room for a nagging, ever-present hum. He tries not to listen too closely and heaves himself out of bed.

On the other side, Mary yawps and stretches. “The next few days,” she says as she rises, “I’ll do nothing but eat, drink, lie in the sun, and get pampered.”

Swiftly kissing Mary’s forehead as she crosses to the bathroom, John agrees: “When we come back I want to be as brown as a hazelnut and five pounds heavier.”

From the bathroom, John hears her laugh as she turns up the water in the shower and, for a moment, everything feels familiar and comfortable.

John clings to this image as he shuffles down to the kitchen; the two of them on a beach, the sun sizzling on their skin and shallow waves playing around their bare feet. That doesn’t seem so bad. It’s just a nice holiday.

Nothing to be worried about.

He takes two mugs out and turns the old coffee maker on. He can’t wait to unpack their wedding presents and hopefully find the espresso machine they have registered for.

Going by the wagonload of gifts that are, for the time being, occupying their sofa, the coffee table, and half the sitting room floor, there are quite a few new things added to their household.

Mary and he had already unpacked one gift that had arrived early—the card attached had explicitly said to. It was from Harry and contained a most inappropriate set of sex toys. Mary hadn’t stopped laughing for at least twenty minutes and John had to threaten her with calling the wedding off to make her promise not to tell Sherlock.

As John waits for the ancient coffee machine to wake up, the image in his mind shifts again, to sunsets and champagne and rose petals sprinkled over a gigantic bed.

He clenches his jaw.

It isn’t the holiday itself John is dreading; It’s the expectation that comes with this particular kind of getaway: consummating the marriage, thoroughly. It’s their honeymoon, after all.

The thought astonishes John. It’s the last thing he thought he’d ever worry about. It has never been an issue before.

He likes sex, always has. And with Mary, it’s easy, uncomplicated.

But now that he’s standing in the kitchen, hours away from it, the prospect is, for whatever reason, quite unsettling.

If Mary would initiate something right now, John isn’t sure he’d be able to go through with it.

It must be the pregnancy. Maybe John has built up some kind of inhibition, an internalised barrier that makes being intimate with his wife seem such a demanding task because it has resulted in something like this.

Or maybe he’s simply still tired. And tense.

John listens to the coffee maker gurgling and burbling.

Yes, that’s probably it. It’ll change once the wedding stress is behind them and they’ve had time to settle into all of this.

And anyway, it’s no use worrying about the future now, with a week filled with spa treatments and three-course-meals ahead of him.

He fills the coffee into the mugs and returns to the bedroom, his mind fixed on the next hour.

After Mary is done, John showers and gets dressed with military efficiency, running through the morning’s schedule again and again as if it were a mantra keeping him focused.

Just as he puts on his button-down, the doorbell rings.

John takes a look at his watch. The cab shouldn’t be here for another half hour. Mary is still in the bathroom, blow-drying her hair going by the noise filtering through the door.

Hastily, John buttons up his shirt as he descends the stairs. His bare feet tap on the wooden floor as he manoeuvres past the presents in the sitting room and the suitcases already standing by the door, waiting patiently for them to leave.

Against his will, his thoughts immediately hurry to the one person he knows to show up at his doorstep at the most unexpected times.

Like an electric current, excitement rushes through his blood. John quickly suppresses the relieved grin trying to break on his face and instead tries for an inscrutable expression.

After quickly fixing his hair, he opens the door and finds—

“Greg? What are you doing here?”

His friend gives him a lopsided, apologetic smile. “Hi.”

John stares at him, a sinking feeling in his stomach, before the sight fully enters his brain.

Greg looks distraught, nervous. He hasn’t shaved and the purplish shadows under his eyes betray that he hasn’t slept much either. His car is parked behind him, one tyre up on the kerb.

With an uneasy look over John’s shoulder, he shifts his weight from one leg to the other.

John has barely ever seen the DI in such bad condition. “What’s going on?” he asks, worry clenching his stomach. “Did something happen? To Sherlock? Is he alright?”

“No. I mean, yes—Yes, he’s fine,” Greg splutters, fumbling with something in his pocket. “I’m here because…”

He throws another glance over John’s shoulder and steps closer. “Look,” he says, his voice low and conspiratorial, “do you remember what we talked about at the wedding? About you choosing, or really not choosing Mary.”

The conversation, up until now only a muddied bit of thought almost out of reach, comes flying back to the forefront of John’s consciousness.

If the alcohol hasn’t substantially altered his memory, he has told Greg how he had decided to marry Mary. There was nothing alarming about that.

Still, John leans forward and lowers his voice instinctively. “Yes?”

“I just…” Greg wets his lips. “If you had had another option, do you think you might’ve chosen it instead?”

John is taken aback. “What? What the hell are you talking about?”

Greg’s eyes widen in an unspoken warning to keep his voice down before he reiterates slowly: “If you’ve had other—options, would that change anything? Or would you have chosen Mary no matter what?”

“I—What?” John asks again. What is all this talk about options? “Greg, what is going on? Just tell me.”

Once again, Greg shifts his weight as if standing on one particular spot for too long would burn his feet. For a beat, he eyes John with such intensity that he feels his face heat up.

At last, Greg pulls a square envelope out of his jacket pocket. “I’ve got something for you. From Sherlock. He wanted to give it to you the night before the wedding but I told him not to. I thought it best if you don’t see it but after what you’ve said at the wedding…”

At the mention of Sherlock, John’s thoughts tumble over each other.

Something Sherlock meant to give him?

Something Sherlock meant to give him but Greg didn’t want him to see?

What on earth could possibly be in that envelope?

It takes him a second to realize that Greg is holding it out to him.

“What is it?” John asks hoarsely, as he eventually takes it. To his dismay, he notices his fingers tremble with the familiar tremor as they clasp the paper.

There’s something thin and hard inside. “A CD?”

“A DVD,” Greg corrects with a pained expression.

“What’s on there?”

“I’m not gonna tell you.”

John can’t help but laugh. It’s a joyless, sceptical snort and it hurts in his throat as if it were coated in acid. “What’s all this with the mysterious attitude? Has Sherlock put you up to this?”

The shadows around Greg’s eyes seem to darken as he looks back at John, unsmiling. “No, he doesn’t know I’m here. And I’m not even sure he would want me to do this.”

For some reason, the answer disheartens John more than any prank or scheme could have.

Greg heaves a sigh and quickly presses his eyes shut as if in pain. “Listen,” he says with his hands raised defensively, “I didn’t want to meddle and I still don’t know if this is the right thing to do. But I can’t just stand by and watch and do nothing.”

The gravity of his voice makes John’s skin crawl.

Greg visibly has to push himself to utter the next words: “So, promise me this, okay: If you’re happy with Mary, unconditionally and final, if she is the One, truly the one person you have always wanted to be with, then destroy it. Don’t look at it, just destroy it.”

“Are you bloody serious?!”

“If, however,” Greg continues despite John’s interjection, “you find that you are unhappy or unsure or asking yourself if you’ve made the right choice with Mary, then watch it.”

John stares at Greg, then at the envelope in his hand.

For a second, he knows his thoughts are written all over his face, all his doubts and fears, every unpleasant, unacceptable truth.

And he knows that Greg can see them.

He clears his throat. “It’s from Sherlock?”

“Yes.” Greg’s voice is softer now but bruises John all the more.

There aren’t that many possible messages this video can contain and, yet, John doesn’t want to imagine a single one.

The little disc in his hand feels sharp enough to sever any tie securing him to earth, as if one wrong movement would suffice to hurl him out into the abyss of space.

He can’t risk watching it.

And neither can he stand not knowing.

This is so unfair.

“Just tell me what’s on here,” he all but begs.

“I can’t,” Greg says and he looks so haunted that John believes him. “I’ve no right to tell you. But I promise you it will open your eyes. The thing is, afterwards, you can’t close them again. You can’t unsee this. So, I’m telling you: Consider carefully.”

John shakes his head in disbelief. “What are you trying to do here, man?

“I want you to have all the options,” Greg says. Something in his face seems to deflate. He looks ten years older. “If you don’t know, you can’t possibly make an informed decision.”

An informed decision?

Frustration is clogging John’s throat. “This is messed up, honestly. What are you expecting me to do?”

Greg gives him a grave look. “It’s your decision now.” He turns around.

“Bloody hell, Greg, I’ve already made my decision,” John bristles, straining his voice to a hiss and stepping out onto the pavement. The stone beneath his bare feet feels oddly unstable. “I am married now. I can’t—I… This is just cruel; do you know that? You can’t just come to my home the day I’m leaving for my honeymoon and—and drop this bomb here. What were you thinking?!”

Greg endures his words with an immutable, weary expression. “I’m sorry.” Slowly, he backs up to his car. “I just couldn’t not at least give you the chance to reconsider.”

“Oi, wait a fucking minute!”

“I’m sorry,” Greg repeats before he gets into the car and starts the motor.

John stands in the doorway, the early morning sun uncomfortably hot on his heated face. His eyes follow Greg’s car down the street but even after it has already disappeared from sight he can’t seem to move.

His fingers are still clasped tightly around the disc and, for a second, he is determined to break it, right here, right now, and ban this whole, mad interaction from his memory.

At the same time, he’s completely aware that he can’t. He just can’t.

John knows Greg.

He’s a decent man. He would never put John through this without good reason. And going by the way he looked, he had pondered whether to come here diligently.

John swallows.

Upstairs, the noise of the hairdryer dies away and frees him from his frozen state.

Quickly, he steps back inside and closes the door as quietly as he can. The last thing he needs right now is Mary asking if someone was at the door and having to come up with some innocuous lie.

As if remote-controlled, he carefully tugs the envelope in his waistband and drapes his shirt over it before he ascends the stairs again.

Mary comes out of the bathroom, putting on her earrings and giving him a pointed look at his naked feet. “Still not dressed, are you? You better hurry then.”

“Right, sorry.”

For the second time in two days, John has the distinct feeling that Mary wants to say something else before she settles for: “I’ll just head over to Kate to give her the key.”

“Alright.” He tugs his mouth up into a smile, an act as strenuous as if he had decided to lift the bed frame instead. “Thank you.”

Ears fixed on Mary’s steps on the stairs and then the front door being opened and shut, John walks over to his chest of drawers and picks out a pair of socks.

The disc is still stuck in his waistband, only the paper wrapper and the fabric of John’s vest between it and his skin. The barrier feels too thin. Any second now the plastic should singe him with its red-hot secrets.

With still irritatingly shaking fingers, he pulls the envelope out again and opens it. There’s nothing in it but the disc, no letter, not even a note.

The DVD itself isn’t labelled either. Just a silver circle, reflecting the light in rainbow-coloured beams.

John inspects it closely but then can’t stand to hold it a second longer.

He throws it onto the bed. From there, the disc seems to laugh at him, to mock him with a tiny, malicious glistening.

_I hold the key to your destruction or salvation, John Watson_ , it whispers and John is gripped by the recurring impulse to smash it into a thousand tiny pieces.

He turns away.

His brain is bursting at the seams. The friction of his racing thoughts is melting his skull from the inside and, sooner or later, it will crack open and release all his secrets into the world.

For a small eternity, he just stands there, in the middle of the bedroom, and fumbles for clear thought.

Then, he hears the front door open again.

He can’t. He can’t deal with this now. Their flight leaves in less than three hours, their bags are packed, everything is booked.

He shoves the disc back into the envelope and buries it under his ugly Christmas socks at the very back of his sock drawer.

“Cab’s here,” Mary shouts from downstairs and John closes the drawer resolutely.

He takes a deep breath and hurriedly puts his socks on. “Coming!”

The plane lifts off the ground and John leans back in his seat. It’s a wonder they’re able to take off with all the extra weight of his thoughts pulling on him. He tries to shove them up into the luggage compartment but as soon as he loosens his grip they fall back onto his head.

He closes his eyes for a moment and swallows against the building pressure in his ears.

Why do they have to fly? He hates flying.

“Everything okay?” Mary asks with a sympathetic hand on his arm.

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” John replies, his voice sounding spurious, even in his own ears.

Mary retreats her hand and turns her head the other way. John can feel the hurt radiating off the gesture but keeps staring out of the window.

The earth beneath them grows smaller, cars and buildings shrinking down to the size of ants, until they’re swallowed by the cloud cover.

John’s hands grip the armrests tightly.

He knows that things have rarely been this far from fine.

The hotel is romantic, nauseatingly so, and John fakes enthusiasm while they inspect their suite, the restaurant, and the white sand just outside their door. Although Mary is smiling and laughing so much that John is flinching at the sound, he is sure that she notices the distance between them.

But any resolution to try and be a good husband John has made previously is now being drowned out by the constant, lingering presence of Sherlock’s mystery message.

He can’t deter his thoughts from circling the DVD, as much as he tries. No walk on the beach, no massage, no yoga lesson can take his mind off of it.

That night, when Mary complains about a headache and wants to go to bed early, John feels nothing but gratitude.

As he lies next to her in the dark, he is certain that, within three days, he has managed to become the most despicable person on the planet.

The next morning, Mary is feeling worse.

John wakes to her throwing up in the bathroom, in between attacks commanding him to leave for breakfast without her. He protests weakly while he hurries to get dressed but, to his relief (and renewed shame), she insists.

“This morning sickness is no joke,” she says when John enters again an hour later. She’s lying on the bed, looking pale and shaky.

At the sight, John’s stomach turns in some kind of sympathy nausea. Or maybe it is just the mere mentioning of the pregnancy that makes his insides crawl with discomfort.

The thought shoots a pang of guilt down his throat.

“I’m sorry,” he says. Mary has no idea how sorry.

He sits down on the covers next to her and begins stroking her arm. “Speaking of the pregnancy…”

Mary sits up a little. “Yeah, I’ve realised that we haven’t really had a chance to talk about it. But it’s great, don’t you think? I’ve always wanted a real family and now we will be one.” She gives him a weak but genuine smile.

John tries to reciprocate. “Yeah.”

“I know you’re worried, love,” Mary says, patting the hand that’s stroking her, “but you’ll be a fantastic father.”

“Thanks, well... It’s just…”

“Sherlock?” Mary asks with raised brows and John’s stomach drops. The name alone seems to be enough to short his nervous system.

Mary chortles at his concerned face. “He’ll be alright, I’m sure. You’ve heard him at the wedding. He knows that things will change. And you can still do stuff.”

“Yes, it’s just…,” John breathes out, “once the baby’s here case work is off the table.”

“Well, for the most part, I guess so.”

“I can’t just rush off when there’s a child in the house.” He tries not to let the anguish this prospect causes him shine through his voice.

“Sherlock will understand. He’s smart.”

“The Yarders will eat him alive when I’m not there to be his interpreter,” John tries again.

“Don’t be silly.”

“I just don’t like the thought of him running around London without help. You know how he gets…,” he adds in what he feels is his last attempt at making Mary see how impossible the idea of Sherlock Holmes without John Watson is.

Mary chuckles even more. “I bet that’s exactly what London’s top criminals are counting on: you being on parental leave so they can finally snuff Sherlock out,” she mocks but the idea genuinely terrifies John.

It must’ve been visible on his face because Mary says: “Oh, come on, John. You can’t be serious. He’s dismantled an internationally operating criminal network without your help. He’ll be fine without his blogger being around to protect him. You really have other things to worry about than Sherlock Holmes.”

Her tone is bordering on contemptuous and John wonders if she knows what a sore spot her words have just pressed on.

“Right. You’re right,” he says and means it.

Mary is right. Sherlock will be fine without him. He doesn’t need him. Not the way John needs Sherlock.

He gives Mary one last pat before he gets up and snatches one of the fluffy bathrobes from its hook.

“I’ll go have a steam, if you don’t mind.”

He doesn’t know how but he gets through the next six days of the honeymoon without having a nervous breakdown. And without fighting with Mary.

It helps that their spa schedule is packed and most of the treatments require silence.

Still, by now even Mary’s presence is enough to make him miserable. Several times, John considers changing their appointments so they won’t be attending the same classes and treatments but, then again, it’s easier to just suffer through the days of togetherness. He doesn’t deserve to feel happy, anyway.

Nevertheless, John finds himself retreating to the hot tub or the sauna more often than he’d usually have just for the fact that his pregnant wife doesn’t want to risk anything by coming with.

Mary must’ve noticed by now that John is avoiding her but no amount of self-loathing—and it’s a significant amount—seems to incite a change in his behaviour. John just can’t bring himself to put any effort into their relationship, is paralysed by the insight that he is, simply and devastatingly, unhappy.

And even the fleeting moments of joy that light up like distant stars every once in a while are immediately spoiled by the relentless presence of the DVD, the bloody DVD.

Whatever John is doing, whenever he feels the slightest bit of hope that things will turn out well, after all, Greg’s obscure hints at Sherlock’s message make his thoughts return to the same run-out path they have been on for days—or maybe longer:

John is depressed when he knows he shouldn’t be. He wants to leave and yet knows he can’t. He wants to see the truth and, at the same time, knows there is no point.

There is no way out.

John Watson is not the kind of person to divorce his pregnant wife, for no reason whatsoever.

He’s stuck.

Like a parasite, guilt is constantly gnawing on his insides, spoiling his appetite and robbing him of his sleep.

By the end of their honeymoon, John is completely exhausted.

When they get home, he is imperturbably sure that he’ll never be happy in his marriage now that he knows about the DVD.

And he feels he’s slowly going mad.

As soon as he can, he takes extra shifts at the clinic, signs up at a gym around the corner from it, and rejoins his old rugby team—anything to keep him out of the house, away from Mary. And from Sherlock.

He still hasn’t heard from him and hasn’t tried to reach out either. Maybe it’s better to make a clear cut, to go cold turkey than to struggle through a half-hearted, altered routine.

Mary doesn’t openly oppose John’s new busy schedule, just gives him pointed looks and caustic comments. John isn’t sure if she’d be this quiet if he had announced to go working cases with Sherlock.

Probably not.

At the same rate as John’s self-hatred grows, his affection for Mary shrinks until it is not even enough to make him think of excuses for working late or going on a run instead of having dinner together.

By the second week they’re home again, he runs every night.

The physical exhaustion doesn’t silence the voices in his head but it lets them converge to one focused thought: Whatever is on that DVD, it can’t make things worse.

And yet, it takes him another week to work up the courage to actually watch the video.

On Friday night, when Mary announces that she's going out for a movie with Janine, John takes it as a sign sent by the universe to stop being such a coward and face the facts.

He skips his evening run and, instead, pours himself a generous glass of whiskey and retrieves the envelope from its hiding place.

Somehow, it feels even heavier and sharper then the first time he’s held it.

John doesn’t dare use the telly in the sitting room, so he dusts off his old laptop and retreats to the study… Well, for now, it’s the study. They will soon turn it into a nursery.

The laptop boots up with a tired hum and John uses the waiting time to take a greedy gulp of his whiskey.

He still has no idea what to expect but he’s certain he can’t shelve this confrontation any longer. He needs to know.

He plugs his headphones in. Fingers steadied by the warm buzz of alcohol, he slots in the DVD and, after another sip, presses play.

There’s Sherlock, sitting on the sofa in 221B, the yellow smiley on the wall watching over him.

For a second, John thinks back to the only other time Sherlock has recorded a video message for him: his birthday, almost three years ago.

If all this video contains is another lecture about body language and how all of John’s friends secretly despise him, he’ll have to have a word with Greg.

But then the Sherlock on the screen reaches over and grabs… a guitar?

John snorts. Of course, the bastard knows how to handle more than one instrument. Not enough that his violin play is so flawless that it has—on multiple occasions—moved John, who doesn’t give a rat’s arse about classical music, to tears.

Now the guitar. What’s next? Trombone?

Then a thought hits the back of John’s head and his jaw drops in anxious anticipation.

Chances are Sherlock will play a song, for him.

Only for him.

A song he has specifically recorded for this purpose.

John’s fears or hopes—or whatever it is that’s currently dancing before his eyes—are coming true when Sherlock clears his throat and speaks to the camera: “John, you know I’m neither particularly skilled nor experienced when revealing my emotions. Victor Hugo once said _Music expresses that which cannot be said and on which it is impossible to be silent_. I’ve come to think that this is true. Maybe some things cannot be put into words. Maybe there are things too vital for mere language to convey, too ineffable. I’ve attempted it nevertheless and hope the music simplifies matters.”

John’s stomach curls in on itself.

_Sherlock revealing his emotions. Oh God._

He doesn’t dare breathe, doesn’t blink in fear of missing even the tiniest details.

Sherlock adjusts the guitar on his lap and begins to play.

[Click here to listen to the song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M2SbH6tFLOs&list=RDM2SbH6tFLOs&start_radio=1)

The melody is unobtrusive, private.

John can’t take his eyes off of Sherlock’s long, slender fingers as they move over the strings, plucking and stroking so tenderly. His heart is beating heavily, in the rhythm to the song.

And then, Sherlock starts to sing.

_“I tried to repress it, then I carried its crown._

_I reached out to undress it and love let me down._

_Love let me down.”_

John swallows, his eyes fixed to the screen. Sherlock’s voice is fragile, tentative, raw.

_“So, I tried to erase it, but the ink bled right through._

_Almost drove myself crazy when these words led to you_

_And all these useless dreams of living alone_

_Like a dogless bone.”_

Growing impossibly soft, Sherlock sings as if he was sitting right in front of John:

“ _So, come let me love you._

_Come let me love you and then_

_Colour me in.”_

Goosebumps spread over John’s scalp and make their way down his spine.

_“Well, I tried to control it and cover it up._

_I reached out to console it._

_It was never enough, never enough._

_So, I tried to forget it, that was all part of the show._

_Told myself I'd regret it, but what do I know_

_About all these useless dreams of living alone_

_Like a dogless bone?”_

Again, Sherlock’s voice drops to unknown levels of fragility. John soaks up the words like a sponge:

_“So, come let me love you._

_Come let me love you and then_

_Colour me in.”_

Sherlock has his eyes closed, completely immersed in the music, as his voice grows louder and more ardent. The crescendo bears down on John like a tidal wave, adumbrating its destructive power.

_“So, come let me love you._

_Come let me take this through the end_

_Of all these useless dreams of living in all these useless dreams,_

_All these useless dreams of living in all these old noes.”_

John takes one last breath as the flood approaches.

_“Come let me love you,”_ Sherlock sings fervently.

The water hits John and presses the air out of his lungs.

_“Come let me love you.”_

He’s plunged into the depths of Sherlock’s emotions, swirled up like the sand close to the shore.

_“Come let me love you.”_

John is drowning, drowning in Sherlock’s voice, in his words, in every passionate chord he plays.

_“Come let me, oh.”_

Sherlock isn’t articulating words anymore, only belting out almost desperate notes. Each one breaks through John like a wrecking ball, leaving nothing but dust and debris. Once again, Sherlock has demolished the foundation of John’s identity.

Even as Sherlock’s fingers on the guitar abate in their fervour, John still feels the aftershock trembling through his body.

The video ends with a few scattered chords and Sherlock shooting an insecure smile at the camera. Then the screen turns black.

John stares at his reflection on the dark surface of the laptop, unable to move. There are tears glistening in his eyes and, as he finally breathes again, one rolls down his cheek.

This is worse, so much worse than he could’ve imagined.

Sherlock loves him.

Sherlock loves him and John has fucked it all up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't you worry, I'll sort this all out in the last chapter :)


	3. Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry you had to wait for the conclusion of this story. This monstrosity of a chapter put up quite a fight and ended up being as long as I originally planned this whole fic to be--hope you don't mind. On another note, you'll find that I divert from canon after The Sign of Three, so the whole Magnussen bit (and Janine, the shot etc.) is missing. Because, let's be honest, John and Sherlock can cook up enough drama on their own :)  
> Enjoy!

“Are you sure I can leave you alone?” Mrs. Hudson asks again, pausing in the middle of getting dressed. Her overnight bag is lurking behind her, packed and ready to leave.

“Remind me when exactly I regressed to a ten-year-old who can’t be left alone at home for the weekend,” Sherlock replies through his teeth, insistently helping her into her coat. It’s inconceivable how much convincing it takes to get the woman out of the house.

Mrs Hudson fumbles with her buttons. “I’m just saying, I don’t have to go. We can postpone. I can stay.”

Sherlock gravely shakes his head. “I honestly don’t think your relationship with Mr Chatterjee would survive any delay of your romantic getaway. Even taken this weekend at a lovely, little bed and breakfast into account, chances are you will break up within the next two months.”

_Since Mr Chatterjee still hasn’t left his wife and doesn’t show any indication he plans to do so._ Sherlock swallows the thought.

With an offended little gasp, Mrs Hudson grabs her bag. “You are an awful, ungrateful boy, Sherlock Holmes,” she huffs but then turns again, her motherly nature gaining the upper hand. “And you’re absolutely sure you’ll be alright?”

“Yes,” Sherlock rolls his eyes, “I’ll be a good boy, eat my vegetables, not watch too much telly and be in bed by ten. Happy? So, before I give in to my urge to push you down the stairs, please just go.” He stresses the last word and tries to look cross enough to place some emphasis on his threat.

Mrs Hudson only giggles and pats his arm. “I’ve made you the lasagne you like so much. It’s in the fridge, you just have to reheat it.”

“Mrs Hudson, I swear to God—”

“Alright, alright, I’m already gone,” she sings and scurries down the stairs with a cheeky spring in her step Sherlock wouldn’t have thought possible, with her bad hip and all.

He slams the door behind her with a dramatic swish of his dressing gown and stomps over to where the golden light of the early evening sun floods through the window.

From there, he watches as Mrs Hudson emerges from 221B and enthusiastically greets Mr Chatterjee who’s leaned against his Toyota ( _two previous owners, needs an oil level check_ ). With a similar springy quality in his movements, he stows her luggage away in the boot and opens the passenger door for Mrs Hudson ( _maybe three months then_ ). She waves up to the window one last time before getting into the car.

Sherlock draws the curtains shut, something heavy and irritating twisting his stomach. Against his will, he feels a little abandoned, after all.

Of course, Mrs Hudson can never know.

She hasn’t left him out of her sight for the better part of three weeks now, bringing him tea and biscuits ( _the good ones_ ), dusting and tidying ( _without messing up the order of things_ ) and even keeping him entertained with the odd board game ( _not Cluedo though_ ). Ever since the morning after the wedding, she has been a steady source of company and distraction, more welcome than Sherlock cares to admit.

And when she had brought him his tea that morning she’d even bitten back an ‘I told you so’, despite her foreboding speech the day before.

Although she had thought it so loudly that it shouldn’t count as being quiet, Sherlock remembers and his nose curls in aversion.

Of course, she was right.

She knows.

Sherlock knows.

And she also knows that Sherlock knows.

Does that make her sympathetic silence better or worse? Is it just polite of her not to point out his misjudgement or is it so painfully obvious that he’s hurting that it renders words completely superfluous?

How should he know?

Sherlock watches the car drive off through the sheer fabric of the curtains before he finally turns away.

Yes, it’s as Mrs Hudson has said: Marriage changes people.

But maybe only in the same way alcohol and money do, revealing and amplifying what’s always been there.

Maybe it was inevitable.

He takes a few steps and a deep breath, letting sink in what he had accepted as a fact for three weeks now.

He is alone.

He only now realises how awfully quiet the house can be without Mrs Hudson’s constant chatting, humming, and hoovering.

For once, it’s quiet enough again for Sherlock to hear himself think. And he’s not sure that’s a good thing.

His mind is an ever-racing, ever-running machine, knowing neither rest nor closing time. Its lights are always blinking, engines always groaning, the conveyers transporting a ceaseless series of ideas from one hemisphere to the other through a maze of tangled synapses until they finally dump them into Sherlock’s consciousness.

In this thought factory, the relentless churning and turning of the gears produces an industrious soundscape that accompanies Sherlock’s every move. When the machinery is well-oiled and busy, the rhythmic pounding and wheezing almost resembles music.

But without proper resistance the engines overheat and compose a cacophony of screeches and hisses.

Sherlock needs distraction, something to feed the hungry furnaces in his head, something hard, a piece of metal for his intellectual forges to shape into theories as sharp as swords.

A case, a puzzle, a proper mystery. That’s what he needs.

The thing is that casework just isn’t the same, without—

Sherlock shuts this mental drawer resolutely.

Instead, he lets his gaze roam around the room. There must be something here to busy his brain with.

He stops at his violin in its case on the desk.

There are a few ‘experimental’ pieces Mrs Hudson has forbidden him to play ( _in no uncertain terms_ ). Sherlock had huffed at her apparent lack in taste but, seeing how uncharacteristically fiery her glare was, had agreed to stick to his usual Bach, Beethoven, and Brahms.

Maybe one of the restricted pieces might be a sufficient pastime.

“Nope,” Sherlock says, popping the p.

Then he realises that he’s reverted to talking to himself, without even having the skull as pretend-company. That’s a bit not good.

Sherlock shifts his gaze and regards the wonky pile of files on the coffee table.

Lestrade has supplied him with a steady stream of cold cases. Although some of them consist mostly of appallingly sloppy paperwork ( _missing out on everything of interest_ ), Sherlock has been able to solve about a third and given crucial tips to re-examine another third. It is a nice little challenge to go by nothing but the old crime scene photos and interviews for his deductions but, of course, it can’t replace proper casework.

Still, Sherlock is enormously grateful for Lestrade’s contribution and more so for his silence. He hasn’t let on about remembering anything Sherlock has said to him that day after the pub, apart from the same knowing look that Mrs Hudson annoyingly displays when she can’t help herself.

Now that Sherlock comes to think of it, all his friends seem to have made a pact to not broach the topic in any way.

Molly, who has come by every couple of days to bring him a few severed toes or the odd spleen, hasn’t said anything about the wedding either, has she? And anyway, Sherlock ponders, hasn’t she always vehemently refused to personally abstract anything from her workplace, even if he had used the facial technique others call 'puppy eyes'?

It’s obvious why her policy has changed so suddenly.

He hisses out an angry breath at the thought.

Oh, how kind they all are to him, showering him with biscuits and cold cases and body parts like a child with scraped knees who’s kept from crying by waving a shiny, new toy before its eyes.

As if he can’t cope with his emotions like an adult.

No, they keep the distractions coming, keep babysitting him until their shift is up, until they feel they have done their duty.

Maybe Mycroft even pays them to do it.

It would be just like him, controlling, pompous prick that he is.

For a moment, Sherlock is intrigued by the idea of hacking into Mycroft’s bank accounts to follow the money trail. On second thought, it’s not even worth the effort.

In his heart, he’s sure that neither of his friends would ever accept money from Mycroft. Otherwise they’d probably not be in his life anymore.

No, he thinks, his hands clenching into fists, it’s much worse than that.

They feel sorry for him.

Oh, how much they must pity him, the poor silly man who’s rumoured not to have a heart and got it broken anyway.

And he’s not even fighting their comfort anymore, is grateful for it, accepts it eagerly.

Pathetic.

He turns a little further still and the sight hits him with undiminished sharpness: the chair.

It’s still standing where it always has, with the same union jack pillow haphazardly thrown on it, but, somehow, it’s growing, demanding more room, more air. Its presence, its reproachful emptiness, colours 221B up to the tiniest speck of dust.

One should assume Sherlock would’ve gotten used to it by now, after three weeks. Or before that actually, when periods of vacancy were only briefly interrupted if anything.

Sherlock swallows against his dry throat.

He really ought to get rid of it, maybe move it to—the other bedroom. It would free up some space, too, for… whatever he wants.

It’s not like he has someone to be considerate of.

A little forlorn, he stands in the middle of the room, bare toes indecisively digging into the carpet. The twisting feeling in his stomach grows stronger by the second, adding a funny, little sting at each turn.

Sherlock wraps himself tightly in his dressing gown, examining the odd sensation in his belly.

Maybe it’s just ordinary, boring hunger.

Mrs Hudson’s force-feeding efforts finally seem to have resulted in something resembling an ordinary person’s metabolism, Sherlock thinks in disgust. He has to thwart that immediately.

But then again, lasagne does sound great.

Sherlock sighs, loudly, dramatically, because there’s no one there to tell him not to.

Defeated, he shuffles to the kitchen and gets the foil-covered oven dish out. Mrs Hudson has left a sticky note on it with specific instructions. As if he weren’t a world-class chemist who bloody well knows how lasagne has to be reheated to reach a satisfying core temperature without burning the cheese.

Mrs Hudson’s care knows neither end nor logic, Sherlock notes again, rolling his eyes once more.

Still, he turns the knobs accordingly, then perches himself on a kitchen chair with his knees drawn in and patiently waits for the timer to announce his lasagne edible.

Sherlock has just removed the tinfoil ( _in exact accordance with Mrs Hudson’s instructions, of course_ ) as his phone buzzes on the desk. The vibration alarm is accompanied by a unique chime, announcing a text message.

Sherlock freezes, his hands tightening their grip around his pyjama-clad calves. Stock-still, he sits on the kitchen chair. The air in his lungs doesn’t dare move either.

He hasn’t heard this sound for almost three weeks, not since the very night he’s installed this special notification.

It had seemed paramount to put in some security measures against the memories, the tiniest of walls to keep out the nauseating feeling of loss.

Even if the wall wouldn’t hold off any enemies, at least its fall would not go unnoticed.

Now, at least, they wouldn’t be able to catch him off guard.

So, Sherlock had ransacked the flat for any memorabilia, had fortified his mind palace, had prepared every possible channel of communication, including his phone.

But then the treacherous thing had remained—agonisingly/amicably—silent for days and days until the carefully construed alarm system seemed rather silly.

Until now.

Sherlock closes his eyes. His breath is still caught in his chest, banging against his ribcage with invisible fists to be set free, and he finally obeys.

His ears seem to ring with the unfamiliar chime until he’s not even sure he’s heard it anymore. Maybe he imagined it, his bored brain deciding to torture him with a reminder of his pathetic state.

For minutes that stretch to millennia Sherlock strains his ears, his pulse slowing down from galloping to a jumpy trot.

And then he hears it again.

Vibrations on the tabletop. And the unique chime.

There is absolutely no room for doubt this time.

Yet, Sherlock doesn’t move, still frozen in his curled-in position on the chair, his knees clasped tightly to his chest, eyes stubbornly fixed on the bubbling cheese in the oven.

He won’t get up and look at the screen.

He won’t.

He can’t.

With sudden mortification, he realises that he hasn’t thought any further than this. He’s put the alarm system in place but there’s no further plan of action.

How could he not have thought about this?

And why hasn’t he just blocked the number?

That would’ve been smarter, right?

The egg-timer shrills and Sherlock startles so violently he almost drops from the chair.

His hands trembling slightly in their oven mitts, he retrieves the steaming lasagne and sets it down on the stovetop.

There’s really nothing to do, he tries to convince himself, as he heaves a generous slice onto a plate and carries it over to the sofa.

He won’t look at the screen.

His resolve survives the last bit of some BBC series on the telly and the evening news as well as another helping of lasagne ( _Mrs Hudson really knows her Italian cuisine_ ). In a way that takes Sherlock back to his early childhood, he finds that warm, homemade food can be remarkably comforting.

What an unsettling thought that his body responds to something as base as food with such an intense feeling of relief.

At least, no one is here to observe this outburst of sentimentalism. Sherlock’s jaw clenches at the thought what Mycroft would say if he could see him now, on the sofa with the telly still running, if only for the illusion of not being alone.

With every passing minute he wonders when he has become such a whiny, pathetic cliché. If he starts watching cheesy movies and eating ice cream straight out of the tub, he should really consult a therapist. Or a caricaturist.

He shifts on the sofa, his stomach now almost uncomfortably full, and, for the thousandth time, reminds his eyes not to drift over to the desk.

The phone is still lying there, untouched. It has chimed a third time ( _invectively_ ) but Sherlock is determined not to give in. No matter how much the bloody device will threaten or entice him.

No, he won’t budge.

It can’t possibly be of any advantage for him to read these messages. Not after three weeks of deafening silence.

What reason could there be to reach out now anyway?

The sex holiday is long over and Sherlock has successfully restrained himself from hacking into the hotel spa’s booking system and moving all appointments to clashing time slots.

So, there’s no reason for a telling-off.

What else could it be?

Guilt, perhaps. Guilt for forgetting about him.

Improbable.

A case maybe? An accidentally uncovered mystery?

Even less probable.

An emergency?

The thought chills Sherlock to the marrow and a thought bubbles up from the depth of his unconsciousness; that’s why he hasn’t blocked the number altogether.

His fingers freeze around the remote they’ve been playing with.

Yes, what if—what if _someone’s_ in trouble? In real danger even?

A murderer on the loose maybe, not hunting down a war-worn veteran this time but out for revenge.

Sherlock has overlooked imminent danger once before ( _countless times before to be honest_ ) and it only recently almost cost a good man his life. What if he’s missed something crucial again, a lurking threat just outside his field of vision, coming after—

Sherlock shakes his head until the gears in his head switch back into their normal position.

It would’ve been a call if it was serious instead of a text. It can’t be that urgent then. Not an emergency.

The grip of Sherlock’s fingers around the remote loosens a little.

_Unless_ , a nasty little voice whispers in his ear, _calling is impossible. And this is an attempt to reach out for help without raising suspicions._

Sherlock springs to his feet, his heart lodged tightly in his throat. He throws the remote down, together with his resolution, and all but leaps over the coffee table. As he scrambles to the desk, Sherlock’s thoughts weave into hectic patterns of worry and remorse.

If he has waited too long—

If it’s already too late—

The phone is buried beneath some of his notes and hides from view and touch for torturous seconds until Sherlock can grab it. Hastily, he unlocks it.

There they are. Three messages, all from the same familiar number.

**17:37**

**Hey**

**17:41**

**Are you free tonight?**

**17:53**

**Sherlock, are you there?**

Sherlock stares at the screen as the words take their time to penetrate the wall of panic around his brain.

No emergency. Not even close.

The pain, carefully kept at bay, hits him with full force. Sherlock’s stomach turns and he desperately wishes he hadn’t indulged on Mrs Hudson’s lasagne.

He should’ve known better.

He shouldn't have looked.

He should’ve kept this shut out, locked up in a vault deep down in the cellar of his mind palace.

_Caring is not an advantage._

He’s broken his own rules now, rules in place to protect his stupid little heart, and for what?

Sherlock hurls the phone at the empty red armchair, half-hoping to break either disloyal object, but the phone just bounces off the cushion and lands miserably on the carpet. He glares at it.

Nothing is safe from this nightmare anymore, not his phone, not his flat, not his own head.

He’s submerged in this utterly abhorrent feeling of helplessness, of vulnerability, like one of his specimens under the microscope, the scalpel readying to open his chest.

With a selection of the vilest curses from seventeen languages, Sherlock tears at his hair. But the pain doesn’t suffice to make the thoughts back down in the slightest. With unrelenting bloodlust, they rip the remainders of his alarm system down, mangle his defences and shred his last bit of self-perseverance until Sherlock is reduced to a pacing, rambling, groaning mess.

It’s too painful.

Having to deal with this is just too much pain.

He has endured hardships straight out of other people’s nightmares, has a body full of scars to show for it. And yet, this is worse.

How do ordinary people do this? Live on with a broken heart, get over it?

To Sherlock, the task equals an attempt to climb down Kilimanjaro, naked and blindfolded. You might as well just sit down at the top of the mountain and freeze to death. It doesn’t make a difference. You’ll die either way.

How do people not simply give in to the pain, let it consume them? How do they keep going?

_Eat ice cream straight out of the tub and watch cheesy movies_ , the trivial part of his brain reminds him.

Right.

Sherlock straightens his shoulders.

Normal human coping mechanisms usually amuse him ( _at best_ ) but this is as far from his area of expertise as can get. It’s worth a try.

Unfortunately, the freezer yields nothing but a few left-over toes and a bag of peas, so Sherlock rummages through the cupboards instead until he finds a box of expensive pralines, undoubtedly from some grateful client or other.

Chocolate seems an acceptable alternative. At least, cacao’s mood-enhancing qualities are scientifically proven. And Sherlock likes chocolate better than ice cream anyway.

He carries his loot over to the sofa and slumps down again. The telly is still running, some silly dating show now having started. The host, a young male with an awful lot of blindingly white teeth, is just introducing the candidates. It’s almost agonising to watch and yet Sherlock can’t find the energy to bother changing the channel.

Crap telly. He can’t believe he’s stooping so low without being forced.

He parks his naked feet on the coffee table again, sinks back into the sofa cushions and shoves a random handful of pralines in his mouth. The chocolate is rich and smooth, instantly melting on his tongue.

It’s nice.

Sherlock has always had a sweet tooth, resorting preferably to sugary treats whenever he is absolutely forced to eat. If it were socially acceptable he’d have his coffee with five or six sugar lumps but he’s learned quite early that two is the maximum people won’t frown at. Being frowned at is not something Sherlock usually concerns himself with but on some occasions it’s better to keep up the appearance of a proper English gentleman instead of looking like a child set loose in a sweet shop.

Other than that, his sugar consumption is limited only by his general aversion to eating while on a case.

The fact that Sherlock can virtually stuff himself with cookies without gaining a single pound has been the one trump card he’s been holding against Mycroft growing up—a fact that might’ve fostered Mycroft’s attempts to drum the negative effects of digestion on brainwork into Sherlock’s head.

But if it’s one thing he’s trying to achieve at this point it’s slowing his brain down for once.

Sherlock picks up another praline, one of those with a salted honey caramel filling, and feels the aching behind his sternum subdue a little as the flavour blossoms in his mouth.

Unfortunately, the admittedly huge box empties faster than anticipated. After another hour of mindless telly, the chocolate is gone and its soothing effect vanishes shortly after. Sherlock tries to hold on to the sugar high but, by now, he can pinpoint every nerve ending on his left forearm where his right hand has worried the skin in a nervous attempt to distract his brain from its own stupidity.

Even the bodily resources needed to digest a pound of lasagne and two dozen pralines don’t seem to suffice to take the edge off his thoughts.

All this normal-human-techniques just aren’t effective on a superior mind such as his, Sherlock notices with contempt. For once, it would’ve been nice to have a head as vacant and peaceful as everyone else’s.

The sun is hanging low outside, reaching for his naked feet on the coffee table with golden fingers.

Sherlock sets them on the floor and shuts off the telly.

It just won’t do.

He needs something else to calm his nerves, something significantly more potent.

He knows Mrs Hudson wouldn’t approve but the alternative sees her finding the flat burned to ruins upon her return. Even without a gun in the house to shoot the wall, Sherlock will surely find other destructive habits that could do similar damage.

And that would be a little ungrateful, even in his eyes.

No, he needs to find something else.

His body aches with the knowledge what this something has to be, the memory still fresh in his cells even though he has gone so long without it.

For a second, he hesitates, reliving the torment of cold turkey. It had been the right decision to quit, back then. Is this worth a relapse, ruining all his progress and starting anew? Is it worth going through the same ordeal again?

Sherlock swallows.

Maybe this time he just won’t quit.

It doesn’t really matter anymore, anyway. It’s not like anyone cares.

At least no one who really matters.

Sherlock pushes the thought aside as best he can, clinging to this last resort with desperate determination.

He treads to his room, throws on the first clothes he gets his hands on, and makes for the door. As he steps out onto the landing, the chair seems to call after him, taunting him in a high mock version of a familiar voice.

Sherlock shuts the door.

He really ought to get rid of that thing.

The air outside is still mild and fragrant, hanging over the heated pavement as Sherlock steps out onto it.

He breathes in deeply. A normal person would probably remark what a lovely evening it is, with birdsong drowning out the traffic noise and flowers blooming on every windowsill. But, well, Sherlock isn’t one of them. Normal people, that is.

Still, he decides to make use of the agreeable weather and walk. It’s quite a significant distance he has to cover, at least an hour on foot, but it’s not like he’s got anywhere else to be.

The soft June breeze tousling his hair is too warm for his taste, even in the light jacket he’s wearing.

This is why he hates the summer months. Soon, the rising temperatures will make wearing his usual suits uncomfortable, let alone his beloved coat.

He’s not made for heat and sun and days that stretch into infinity.

He favours darkness, brooding clouds, and shadows coming to life. As do the criminals that make his occupation worthwhile.

Sherlock doesn’t understand how people can complain about the English weather. If anything, it sets the mood properly—for adventures and mystery.

It is a sad world in which one can no longer rely on the ever-lasting, dreary London fog clinging to every house and pressing its nose against the windows, Sherlock thinks as he strolls towards Regent’s Park. Why can’t it always be January?

His feet carry him without his conscious command while he remains carefully immersed in thought, mulling Lestrade’s latest stack of cold cases over, sifting through his observations in hope of finding that one grain of gold, that obvious answer.

As soon as he slackens the reins, his mind tries to drift off to those perilous realms he eschews and yet feels drawn to.

He can’t let that happen. He needs to focus on the Work.

This is what has given his existence a purpose, a meaning before. Maybe it can again.

He’s lived most of his adult life without anything else filling his days. It’s always been the Work that defined him.

And it was what he had life expected to be. The delusion of companionship died the day Redbeard did and stayed dead for the longest time.

Sherlock recalls Mycroft’s hint at the wedding, the little reminder how loss had affected him before. He still vividly remembers: not speaking for almost a year, hanging on Mycroft’s sleeve for guidance and comfort, only to be taught the most important lesson of all human existence: Loving what can be lost is dangerous, is illogical, is foolish.

_Caring is not an advantage._

Sherlock had listened then and he had tried, tried to harden his heart the way his big brother could, tried to shut out all this stupid sentiment.

But in the end his efforts were in vain, he has to admit now.

He is still faulty and foolish and feeling, feeling so deeply and devastatingly much.

But it’s the same way you’d deal with a glitching computer, any defective device really: set it back to the last software version it still functioned on. This is just returning to a working system, fixing the bug, eliminating the problem at its root.

It’s back to normal, if anything.

Sherlock begins to hurry a little, the urgency of his craving accelerating his steps.

Before long, he finds what he’s looking for: a small newsstand right outside his bribery radius. The owner is about to close for the night but still happily sells Sherlock three packs of cigarettes and a lighter. The quip about his rushed demeanour only peripherally touches Sherlock’s ears as he rips the pack open.

He smokes the first cigarette right there on the spot, the nicotine welcomed back in his bloodstream like an old friend. Instantly, his mind seems clearer, sharper. The nervous quiver leaves him with every bit of deliciously blueish smoke entering his lungs.

On his way home, Sherlock stops three more times, relishing each cigarette between his lips while the sunbeams warming his face slowly get lost between the buildings. As he enters Regent’s Park again, runners and people with their dogs passing him by, the sky above has already changed from a radiant pink to an intense, rapidly darkening blue.

Night has fully fallen when Sherlock finally turns back into Baker Street. In the orange light of the street lamps, moths and mosquitoes are fluttering excitedly as if their endeavour to reach the moon has finally born fruit.

The air has cooled down enough to make Sherlock shiver whenever the wind touches him now. He finds that the prospect of having a cup of tea in the warmth of his flat is promising, even without Mrs Hudson’s biscuits and company. The weight of the packs of cigarettes in his pocket has something decidedly reassuring about it, giving Sherlock hope to survive this weekend without losing his mind completely.

Lestrade and Molly are surely informed about Mrs Hudson’s little trip and will offer him enough distraction once morning comes. He’ll just have to get through the night, rebuild and improve his alarm system, and everything will be alright.

He’ll be fine. Eventually.

Sherlock raises his eyes to the sky, now midnight blue and speckled with stars. How tiny and irrelevant his problems seem in the face of such beauty.

He’s only a few yards away from 221B, when he notices something moving in the shadow thrown by Speedy’s awning; a figure shifting in front of the door. Against the dark wood, its silhouette is hard to make out.

Sherlock’s stomach tightens, reacting faster than his mind can pick up the information.

There’s someone sitting on the steps.

The figure has apparently spotted him, too, and rises. The streetlight’s gleam draws the outline of a man onto the pavement. In the semi-darkness, his features are still hidden from view but Sherlock doesn’t need to see his face anyway.

He’d recognise this silhouette anywhere.

For a split second, he ponders turning around and just running, running as fast as his feet can carry him. Yet, he forces himself to keep walking as if his heart isn’t cramping, as if his pulse isn’t hammering in his ears. His legs rebel vehemently and try to drag him in the opposite direction but still Sherlock finds himself within earshot before he knows it.

“John,” he says, pleased to find that his voice is completely neutral.

John is standing there with his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, waiting for Sherlock to get closer. When they are only a few feet apart, he nods his head slightly and gives Sherlock a sheepish smile. “Hi.”

The sound shakes at Sherlock’s core, John’s familiar voice, throaty with awkwardness. It’s almost painful to look at him. So, Sherlock digs out his keys instead. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m—um—waiting for you.” John steps aside as Sherlock unlocks the door. “I really needed to see you.”

The words shoot through Sherlock like poison arrows. He can’t do this. He can’t listen to John saying he needs him, can’t meet his eyes when they’re so full of sincerity.

“So, you thought you’d just pop by unannounced?” he asks as he enters the hall, aware that his accusatory tone takes John aback before he even turns around to see his face.

It’s for the best, probably.

“I—,” John begins, then lets his tongue slip out to wet his lips. “You didn’t reply to my messages.”

“That’s because I’m busy. Urgent cases to solve,” Sherlock lies, carefully layering his voice with impatience. If he just can get rid of John before all dams break…

“Cases?” John follows him up the stairs and Sherlock doesn’t have the strength to tell him not to. “You’ve been working?”

“Does that surprise you?” he asks instead. “Criminals don’t suddenly stop being criminals just because you got married.”

“No.” John’s steps behind him halter momentarily. “No, of course not.”

Sherlock pushes the door to the sitting room open, the empty box of chocolates on the sofa an unpleasant reminder. Hastily, he throws his jacket over it before heading to the kitchen.

“As you know I’ve put the Work temporarily on hold during the wedding planning,” he says while surreptitiously getting rid of the almost empty lasagne dish. “I’m sure you’ll understand how many cases have piled up.”

When he has put the kettle on and returns to the sitting room, John is still standing near the door. His shoulders have slumped. “I just thought you would call if anything interesting came up,” he says and the disappointment in his voice crushes Sherlock.

“I assumed you were busy, too,” he replies as casual as he can, “preparing for the baby and whatnot.”

“Yes, right.”

The minutes it takes Sherlock to make the tea pass in silence. He uses the time to think of a plan, has already lined up a number of hurtful and offensive remarks to make John leave of his own volition. Sherlock might not be able to tell him to go but he knows how to behave so that no reasonable human being would want to be in the same room with him.

His insults are locked and loaded but as soon as he returns to the sitting room and finds John in the red armchair all words seem to vanish from his brain. He proffers John his cup of tea and retreats to his own seat in front of the fireplace.

As hard as he tries to avoid the image before him, there’s just no use. John belongs here, in this chair, in _his_ chair. How could Sherlock ever have tried to deny that?

Cutting him out of his life, he realises now, would be like cutting off his right hand. It doesn’t matter how painful life is with John an arm’s length away. Life without John is no life at all. It’s meaningless, grey existence, free of joy, void of colour.

Still, he is definitely not ready to face John like this, unprepared and vulnerable. He needs to get him to leave, to come back when his thoughts aren’t a tangled mess anymore.

Sherlock sips on his tea to wash down the lump in his throat.

At long last, he says, “So, what can I do for you? You said you needed to see me?”

“I…,” John starts, furrowing his brows for a split second before he settles on, “I just thought we could hang out.”

“Hang out?”

John waves his tea-free hand. “Yes, you know. Friends do that.”

Sherlock lets his gaze roam over the beloved face now, all pain it causes aside. “We don’t though. We never do that,” he states. Something weird is going on with John. Sherlock can’t place his expression.

“Sure, we do,” John objects. “We used to hang out all the time, before…when—”

“When you used to live here.”

John gives him a strange look and then another of his little nods before he lowers his eyes into his teacup.

Over the rim of his own cup, Sherlock watches him intently. “You came all the way here and waited outside my door just to ask if I wanted to hang out with you,” he says, not hiding the questioning undertone in his voice.

“Well, no,” John admits. “I… There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

Sherlock quirks a brow the way he knows John finds annoying although his insides squirm at the words. “And you couldn’t text me that?”

“Well, you didn’t respond.”

“And your next best idea was to just pop round, unannounced as I may point out again, and, upon finding I wasn’t home, wait outside for me to come back?”

“Yes.”

“You interrupt me on a very busy, urgent case because I didn’t reply to your text?” Sherlock sets his cup down a little too forcefully, spilling tea onto the saucer.

John doesn’t waver. “Yes.”

“What could _possibly_ be so urgent?” Sherlock crosses his legs and fixates John again.

For a beat, they glare at each other.

John’s voice is measured and steady as he finally says, “I watched the video, Sherlock.”

“What video?”

John’s tongue darts out again. “Greg came round the other morning and gave me a DVD. He said you had meant to show me before the wedding.”

Sherlock’s stomach slides down the armchair cushion and, for a moment, he knows John can see the horror painted on his features. “He—he gave it to you?”

John’s face is inscrutable. “Yes.”

“And you… watched it?”

“Yes.”

The single syllable lets all alarms go off in Sherlock’s head. Red lights blink over the scenery as the sirens set in. “Why—why did he give it to you? He said I shouldn’t, that it was a bad idea.”

“Something must’ve changed his mind.”

“You—you watched it?” Sherlock asks again, the rattling and screeching in his thought factory growing louder by the second. He can’t think with all this noise.

John nods gravely. “I did. Tonight.”

Sherlock can’t fathom it. He can’t believe that all the years of excruciating secrecy, of having the only person he’s ever wanted right in front of him and yet lightyears away, have cumulated to this: a stupid video he has recorded as a last escape, just to let it out, to finally say it, sing and shout it out to the world. And now it’s not even the big romantic gesture it was meant to be.

Just a song, a pathetic attempt at expressing what must now be painfully obvious to John.

“Then you know,” Sherlock says. It’s a statement, a fact. His defeat is final. John knows how Sherlock feels about him.

Another nod and something Sherlock can only describe as a pitying smile flits over John’s face as he plays with his teacup. “I think I do.”

Silence rages on between them, only interrupted by Sherlock’s heartbeat echoing in his ears, heavy and hurtful.

John opens his mouth after a few tense seconds but now the emergency protocol in Sherlock’s brain finally gains traction. “Listen, John,” he says, before John can form words, “I didn’t mean for you to see it, not like this. I don’t know what Lestrade was thinking but I can assure you I had nothing to do with it. He was absolutely right when he told me not to do it. I would never want to get between you and Mary.”

“I know,” John says but Sherlock barely hears it.

“And while I know that most people find it difficult to maintain a friendly relationship with someone who is attracted to them I can promise you I would never make any advances or make you feel uncomfortable in any way.”

Sherlock swallows the last bit of pride although his tightening throat makes it difficult. The collapse is imminent. Why fight it.

“To be honest,” he keeps going, “I’m utterly inexperienced in these matters. It might just be a passing fancy I eventually get over. I honestly don’t know. But I’m not prone to endless pining and romanticising.” That might be a bit of a stretch but if it helps keeping John in his life… “I can be professional. If you just give me a little time and space to adjust.”

John regards him with a strange expression, so Sherlock hastens to add: “If, however, you want to terminate this friendship nevertheless, I completely understand. I would appreciate it though if you didn’t tell anybody else about this.”

“I don’t want to terminate our friendship,” John says with the tiniest shake of his head. He sets his tea down and rubs his forehead. “I just wish you would’ve told me sooner.”

“I never meant to deceive you, believe me. I just thought it would be easier if you didn’t know. Most men wouldn’t be comfortable living with another man who has feelings for them and I didn’t want you to move out because of this—this unfortunate defect.”

“Since when do you feel this way?” John inquires, his face, usually an open book for Sherlock, now closed off and unintelligible. “You told me you considered yourself married to your work. Was that a lie?”

“No, I—,” Sherlock starts without knowing where his words are headed. He pauses. “I meant what I said, I believed it then. This has never happened to me before. I’m not sure when it started exactly. It just happened. I rather it hadn’t.” The aching in his chest confirms his words and Sherlock heaves his mouth upward into a sad smile. “But I’ve learned a painful lesson on the autonomy of feelings. You can wish them gone as much as you like. They rarely listen.”

John stares at his own feet, his silver-blonde hair glistening in the dim light. “When did you know?”

Sherlock bites his lip. He can’t believe they are talking about this, that John hasn’t gotten up and left yet. Forever this time. “I suspected it at the pool, when I saw the explosives wrapped around you, but I couldn’t pinpoint it. I… usually I don’t do this. I’m not like this. It took me by surprise and the worst thing was that Moriarty knew before I did. That you were important to me, more than that.”

“When did you know then?”

“I was fairly certain after the Woman.”

John’s head shoots back up again. “So, you’ve slept with her and that made you realize—”

“I didn’t sleep with her,” Sherlock interrupts him, unable to suppress the eye roll. Is John ever going to let this go? “Of course, I didn’t. But I overheard your conversation at the power plant. That’s when you both brought to my attention that there is but one special person in my life. You. Everything she tried to be for me failed because the place was already taken.” It feels weird to admit this so openly.

“So, you knew then?”

“No.” Sherlock measures his next words carefully. “I only knew on the roof. When I had to say goodbye to you.”

To Sherlock’s surprise, John rises to his feet, some inner lightning illuminating his dark-blue eyes. “You knew you loved me then and yet you let me grieve your death for two years?!”

“I had to,” Sherlock replies, bewildered by John’s anger. He knows this is a sensitive subject but, given the fact that Sherlock has virtually just confessed his feelings for him, it seems a bit of an overreaction, even in Sherlock’s limited experience.

John scoffs. “Oh please, the great Sherlock Holmes doesn’t have to do anything. You with your back-up plans and—and exit strategies.”

Sherlock feels something stirring in his guts, something acidic and revolting. This isn’t fair. “You still don’t understand, do you?”

John’s brows slide together like an iron gate locking his face. “Obviously, I don’t.”

Something about his stubborn stance, this way he plants himself on one spot, immovable and obstinate, makes Sherlock’s blood boil over. John is a soldier, for God’s sake; He should be the first to understand that there are worse things than death.

“Do you know why I had to jump off that building? Do you want to know?” he hisses at him, springing to his feet and stepping closer, using his height to full advantage. John has to look up at him now, their eyes boring into each other.

“There were snipers, John, three of them. One for each of you. Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, and you. Moriarty had everything arranged to make his story complete, to make me look like a fraud: Commit suicide or all your friends die. He even blew his own brains out to ensure the command couldn’t be taken back. Tell me, what would you have done?”

John’s eyes widen but his stance doesn’t lose any of its rigidity. “You… you could’ve told me afterwards,” he insists. “I would’ve understood.”

“You were better off believing I was dead. I had to destroy Moriarty’s network and—”

“You could’ve taken me with you.” John’s voice is hurt and reproachful and so insufferable persistent that Sherlock feels the urge to grab him, to shake some sense into him.

“I couldn’t, don’t you understand!” he bellows and, to his satisfaction, John startles. “I couldn’t risk you getting hurt. I loved you and that was the greatest liability I could burden myself with. I was vulnerable, distracted—and not even sure if I would ever make it home again. The only thought getting me through this was that you were safe. That no one knew and that no one could get to you.”

John stares at him, his throat bobbing as he swallows. “Why didn’t you tell me that? When you came back. You said you were worried about my indiscretion.”

“I had just ruined your proposal. I thought a love confession would be the last thing you’d want to hear. You were so mad already.”

“You walked in that restaurant, after two years, and played a fucking prank on me! What did you expect? That I’d fling my arms around you or—or faint out of sheer surprise and happiness?”

“I didn’t think you’d punch me in the face, that’s for sure!”

“You pretended to be dead—for two years!” John roars and stomps out into the room. “I organised your funeral, I visited your grave. And all this time you were alive and keeping this gigantic secret from me.”

John’s anger is infectious; Sherlock feels it seething in his bloodstream. “What would you have done in my position? Wouldn’t you have tried to keep me out of the line of fire? Wouldn’t you have done whatever it took to protect me? Even if it meant never telling me?”

“I—,” John begins and turns around. “I…”

“Do you think this has been easy for me?” Sherlock spits with one finger raised accusatorily. “Do you think I rejoiced at the thought of seeing you marry someone else, of seeing you happy with someone else? I tried, I really did try to the best of my abilities to make this work for you. And I don’t think you can tell me otherwise.”

“Listen, Sherlock,” John tries again but Sherlock can’t be held now.

“No, you listen! I wanted to tell you when I came back but it didn’t seem right with Mary there. You know that I’m not one to be considerate of other people’s feelings but even I understand that confessing your undying love to someone else’s fiancé isn’t right! This video was one last attempt, the last straw but, even then, I decided to stay silent for your sake, to not ruin your wedding. I have supported you in this even though it broke my heart—”

“Sherlock, please, you’re right, okay?” John tries to mollify him, his fury given way to something else, but Sherlock doesn’t want to hear, doesn’t want to stop the torrent of words he’s suppressed so long. He begins to pace the sitting room.

“Everything I’ve done from the moment that we met I did to make you happy, to keep you safe! I ripped myself apart these past years and I won’t stand here and be accused of doing this for any other reason than your safety and happiness because for once—”

“Sherlock!”

“No! If I’m your friend, after all we’ve been through, you can’t possibly think me so selfish. I know I’m an arsehole but on this one occasion I actually did the right thing and it’s insulting that you can’t see that!”

John raises his voice again: “Can you stop getting in my face for one bloody second? I’m trying to tell you I love you here!”

Sherlock stops dead in his tracks. “You—you what?”

He stares at John who stands there, hands still clenched to fists. But as their eyes meet, the fury burning in them changes into something subtler, something softer but not less intense.

The creases on John’s forehead smooth out as his mouth turns up into a sheepish smile. “I love you, you idiot.”

Sherlock swallows around the lump lodging in his throat again, for different reasons this time. “You do?”

“Yes.”

The air in the flat seems mellower and warmer all of a sudden, as if one of the soft summer night breezes has snuck inside and brought the scent of oleander and lilies with it.

The anger bleeds from Sherlock as fast as it came.

John loves him?

The thought lights a candle inside him, moths and other creatures of the night fluttering towards it and filling Sherlock’s stomach with a giddy, disbelieving trembling.

Unable to blink, he stares at John whose stance has lost its soldier-like quality. His eyes regard Sherlock with fond concern.

“Did you hear me?” John asks at length as Sherlock still doesn’t move, and he makes a few tentative steps towards him. “I love you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock holds his breath, the words beading down his spine in a shiver.

John comes closer, one hand wrapping around Sherlock’s wrist. The touch, tender yet determined, is rippling through his body like a tidal wave. John reaches up to his face and the glistening of something catches Sherlock’s attention, something golden reflecting the light from the streetlamp outside.

John’s wedding ring.

Sherlock bites his lip, the fluttering feeling in his stomach being replaced by a cannonball. Everything in his body revolts as his tongue forms the words “That’s… unfortunate.”

“Why?” John asks dumbfounded and freezes in the middle of his movement.

“Because you’re married to someone else.”

John looks at him, his eyes filling with anxious disbelief. “Yes but—”

“And there’s a baby on the way.”

“True but—”

“You’ve made a commitment,” Sherlock states and the fact that he’s right makes him nauseous. He forces the words out because he knows they have to be said. “To Mary. And you’re not the kind of man who leaves a pregnant woman.”

“Yes but—” John tries to interject but Sherlock can’t let him finish, can’t bear to hear his reasoning because he’ll give in.

“Are you going to leave Mary?” he asks, dreading the answer.

“I—”

“Have you talked to her?”

“No, I wanted to speak to you first,” John says, trying to hold on to him but Sherlock turns away.

“So, you could go back to her when things didn’t work out?” he says, his voice deflating. “Smart, it’s good to have a back-up, I guess.”

“What? No,” John protests in a high voice. “I wanted to talk to you first. I couldn’t wait a minute longer.”

“You could when you decided to marry someone else.”

John raises his arms in frustration and turns on the carpet. “I didn’t know you felt this way. You—”

“You knew on the stag night.” Sherlock turns again and carefully eyes John’s expression, looking for minuscule clues of whether he’s telling the truth. “You must’ve known.”

John’s tongue darts out again. “We were both drunk. People do dumb stuff when they’re drunk.”

“Like kissing their best man?” Sherlock asks caustically.

John’s jaw drops slightly. “You noticed that?”

“Of course, I did,” Sherlock huffs, the aching right behind his sternum pressing the air out of his lungs. “If you loved me then why did you marry Mary anyway? Why didn’t you say something? Don’t you think that’s unfair, if not towards me then at least towards Mary?”

“I—”

“If you felt this way, all this time, then why did you marry her?” he reiterates, stepping closer.

“I was scared and—”

“So scared that you’d rather be with someone you don’t love?”

“I loved her, okay?” John swallows heavily. “Just not fully, not the way—”

“Would you ever have said something if it weren’t for the video?” Sherlock interrupts him and the thought makes the world around him fade into nothingness.

“I don’t know,” John admits after a beat. “But—”

“You don’t know?” Sherlock shrieks, the pain in his chest almost overwhelming. “Why did you come here then?”

John turns on the spot, an animal rampaging in its cage. “I’m still coming to terms with all of this, alright?! Do you know how shocked I was when I heard you sing that song? I had to see your face to know if it was true!”

“And then what? How did you think this would play out?”

“I don’t know, okay?” John shouts, his voice pleading and throaty. “The only thing I do know is that I can’t wait any longer, not a second. I can’t do this anymore. I’ve wanted this since we first met and I never in a thousand years had dreamed you would want it too. How could you?”

John brings his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose, his voice forcedly calm as he continues. “You told me on that very first night that you don’t do dating, that you’re not wired that way. That you weren’t interested. So, I decided to just get over it and deal with it, with negligible success. But it was enough just to be around you. It was more than the life I had bargained for and I loved it, loved you.”

A small smile he doesn’t care to hide curls John’s lips for a second. Then he says, “I thought about telling you so many times. So many times. But I chickened out I guess. I was waiting for the perfect opportunity, for a sign that you felt the same. I thought we’d get there eventually. But then you jumped off that rooftop and I… I lost you.” He shakes his head as if to get rid of the thought. “And I beat myself up for having waited so long and I cursed myself for being such a coward and for having to live a life without you in it. I thought that you wouldn’t’ve jumped if I had been a better reason to stay. I was devastated, just a broken, black-and-white version of myself. Worse than after Afghanistan, so much worse.”

Sherlock listens in quiet horror, frozen to the spot, as John lays his heart bare in front of him.

“Mary found me when I had nothing else to hold on to,” he continues, “and she was kind and funny and good to me. I didn’t know you’d come back. I’ve begged every force in the universe to bring you back to me but I had no hope left that you’d return. Mary helped me move on. She understood even if I never told her what I felt for you. She understood and she was okay with it. She didn’t give up on me and I wanted to make her happy in return, to do the right thing. When you showed up at that restaurant I was sure I was just imagining your face, the way I had done a thousand times before. And when I realised that it was you, really you, I got so angry because I had you back the second I knew I had missed my chance. I was engaged and Mary was so happy and I wanted to believe I was, too. I couldn’t let myself feel about you this way again, not after everything that happened. But I knew… deep down I knew I was being a coward, making the wrong decision. And now there’s a child tangled up in all of his and I—I… I’m so bloody scared, I can’t think straight. I’ve always tried to do the right thing, the proper thing but… I don’t want this anymore. I can’t do this anymore.”

His eyes meet Sherlock’s, glistening wetly.

“I know I fucked it all up and I have no idea how to fix it. Sherlock, I’m sorry, I really am so, so sorry. I just—”

Big, pearly tears disentangle themselves from John’s lashes and drop down his cheek. His voice breaks. “I just want to be with you,” he chokes out. “I just want to come home. I just want to come home. Please.”

John’s head sinks, heavy with the weight of his words, and he just stands there, shoulders shaking with quiet sobs.

Sherlock is alarmed. He has never seen John cry like this before, not trying to quell the tears, not trying to be brave and fight through it. He looks small and forlorn as his weeping fills the flat. And Sherlock has never loved him more.

It only takes two hesitant steps until he’s close enough to wrap his arms around John, one hand on his back, the other gingerly placed on his nape, the same way John did at the wedding.

John readily sags against him and Sherlock steadies him, holds him upright, carries the weight for him a little while.

“It’s alright,” he says, gently running his thumb over the soft skin just below John’s hairline. “It’s okay.”

“It bloody isn’t,” John snivels into his shirt. “It’s the furthest fucking thing from okay. No, no, it’s not—it’s not okay.”

“I know,” Sherlock exhales and lets his cheek sink onto John’s head. The scent of his shampoo fills his lungs and makes him slightly dizzy. “But it is what it is.”

John’s arms come up around his waist now. His hands fisting in Sherlock’s shirts, he pulls him almost painfully close. Sobs shake through his body like an earthquake and Sherlock tightens his grip.

“It is what it is,” he murmurs again. “It is what it is.”

Sherlock doesn’t know how long they stand there, clasping each other like holding on is the only thing keeping them alive. The summer night outside drifts by and still John is crying, a thunderstorm washing the past years’ dust and dirt away.

Eventually, his tears ebb away but Sherlock continues stroking patterns into the fabric of his shirt. John snivels a couple of times and his hair tickles Sherlock's neck.

At last, John slowly raises his head, loosening his grip just enough to look up at him. His eyes meeting Sherlock’s are red and still glistening wetly.

“So, do you love me?” he croaks out, a hint of the mischievous grin Sherlock adores so much tugging at his lips.

“I love you. More than anyone has ever loved anyone else,” Sherlock replies and he’s never meant anything more in his entire life.

John’s smile broadens. He brings one of his hands up and dries his face with his sleeve. “I love you, too, you know, I really do. You amazing, fantastic, infuriating human being, I love you.”

Sherlock’s knees almost give out at the sound of these words he never thought to hear like this but, now that they hang in the air between them, there can be no doubt about their truthfulness.

John loves him.

He can see it in his eyes.

They bore into his own with such intensity, with an irresistible, gravitational force pulling Sherlock into his orbit.

John’s hand, resting on Sherlock’s chest, slowly wanders upwards, to his neck and into his hair. Sherlock feels goosebumps spread over the skin where John touches him. His heart drums a hard, eager rhythm in his chest and Sherlock is sure John can hear it, as close as he is.

So close and yet not nearly close enough.

He wants to, needs to get closer. Yet, he doesn’t know how, doesn’t know what to do.

For a millisecond, John’s eyes dart to his lips and Sherlock lets his eyes fall shut, surrendering to his guidance, as John pulls him in.

Their lips meet and it’s wet and clumsy and glorious. Sherlock sinks into it, giving himself over to the one person he trusts. All worries, all his fears and doubts explode in a firework of colours, a big bang of creation, every fibre of his being born anew under John’s lips.

Sherlock’s mouth opens without his conscious command, inviting John’s tongue in, and even this is not close enough. His hand sneaks into John’s hair, holding him in place because this can never end. He can never let John go again.

They kiss and kiss and Sherlock is sure he’ll never recover from the extraordinary experience of being engulfed by John.

His lungs scream for oxygen but it’s not a good enough reason to stop. He can suffocate for all he cares if it only means melting into John like this. Stars appear on the bright, colourful canvas of his mind, and as he’s sure he’ll faint any second now, they part, both hungrily sucking in air, then diving back into softer, shorter kisses. John’s thumb rubs over Sherlock’s cheekbone, anchoring him, as his legs capitulate and they both sink to the floor in a tangle of limbs.

Through the daze of his dizzy brain, Sherlock sees John’s face shining down at him. “What now?” he asks, still slightly out of breath.

“We’ll figure it out.” John gives him a smile, calm and determined. “We always do.”

Sherlock believes him.

**20 months later:**

Sherlock is floating, carried by a cosy cloud of bliss. His blood bubbles like the champagne being poured out as he watches the people he loves gathered around the long table. Their voices and soft music fill the room, melting into a pleasant buzzing sound in Sherlock’s ears, like bees on a spring meadow.

There is Mrs Hudson, deep in conversation with Molly. His parents and John’s sister are laughing about a joke Mike Stamford is telling and, on the other side, there’s his little stepdaughter Hannah on her mother’s lap, both looking as content as can be.

Sherlock lets his eyes roam between them, relishing in the feeling of belonging amidst these wonderful people, until his gaze falls onto the man next to him.

John has never looked more handsome—or happier. Sherlock’s heart flutters.

On his other side, Greg rises and clinks his pastry fork against his champagne flute. The conversation subsides and all eyes focus on him as he sets his glass down and pulls a set of cards out of his inner jacket pocket.

“Ladies and gentlemen, friends, family, and newly-weds,” he begins with a bright smile at Sherlock and John. “As best man I’d like to say a few words about these two here.”

John and Sherlock share a quick look.

“From the moment I first saw John and Sherlock together,” Greg begins, his voice cheerful and fond,” on this day six years ago, I knew their story would be one to remember, one people will still read about in a hundred years. Their story will be aggrandised and glorified to epic extents, because, let’s be honest, who would believe that these two are mere humans?”

The guests giggle and Hannah lets out an approving squeak.

“You just have to read John’s blog to realise: They’re old-fashioned heroes, living their own modern fairy tale, full of dragons to slay and mysteries to solve. Everyone can see that they make the perfect team, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. And for a while, these two were stumbling from one adventure to the next, always on the brink of tragedy. Old-fashioned heroes face old-fashioned villains in varicoloured disguises and everyone who has ever read a fairy tale knows that heroes are forged by danger, by failure, and by sacrifice. But now that their tale finally has its happy ending I can relate the whole story, the real story to you all. And it begins with a best man speech…”

John’s hand finds its way into Sherlock’s, squeezing it as they listen to Greg’s words. The brand-new wedding band pressed into Sherlock's skin feels natural, like a missing part of his body returned at last. He can’t believe it took so long for them to arrive here.

“So, pray, raise your glasses,” Greg announces at last, “for Mr and Mr Holmes-Watson, knights in shining armour, and their happily ever after.”

The guests toast them enthusiastically and Sherlock feels his throat tightening up, overwhelmed by all the love surrounding him.

He looks at his husband, a smile as bright as the sun on his face, and John beams back at him.

The world has never been so full of colour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just couldn't resist including the Johnlock hug because it's honestly the best thing that came of series 4... Let me know what you think of the ending! And especially if you'd be interested in a little (well, I say little) one-shot about the whole confronting Mary scenario and/or some sexy time between these two idiots. I didn't want to include any smut in this but I'm easily convinced to write some ;)
> 
> Thank you for all your support, lovely comments and kudos along the way!
> 
> I write for the joy of it and your kudos and comments are reward enough.  
> Still, if you enjoyed this work and want to show your appreciation by treating me to a cuppa (and making my college life a little easier), feel free to do so [here.](https://ko-fi.com/sosoholmeswatson)
> 
> Lots of love!

**Author's Note:**

> The song which inspired this whole fic and is featured as Sherlock's ballad remains a secret, although (Spoiler!) the title of this fic is a major giveaway. If you can't wait, you can listen to it [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M2SbH6tFLOs). Otherwise, you'll have to wait for my lazy self to finish the next chapter ;)


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